


Ghosts of the Past

by Kirathaune



Category: Saiyuki
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, M/M, Street & Stage Magic, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-08-21 20:15:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 32,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8259245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kirathaune/pseuds/Kirathaune
Summary: In 1870s London, a mysterious “spiritual surgeon,” has gained notoriety by making ghosts appear and performing bloodless surgery. Doctor Gilbert Sansom has been tasked with exposing him as a fraud, but Gilbert will need help from one of his own ghosts – a redheaded one named Joseph Shackleton.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theskywasblue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theskywasblue/gifts).



“Gilbert, would you please come see me in my office when you’re finished with your patient?” 

Gilbert Sansom pushed down his annoyance at being interrupted while he was examining a patient, and he glanced over at the well-dressed man standing in the doorway. “Of course, Sir Nigel,” he replied, keeping his tone even. The man was his employer, after all. “Lady Swindon and I are almost finished here.”

“Excellent.” Nigel Janning flashed a bright, if insincere, smile at the woman who took up most of the upholstered settee in the tastefully appointed examining room. “So good to see you, Lady Swindon,” he said. “I trust that young Gilbert has sussed out the nature of your pain?”

“Doctor Sansom was very thorough, Sir Nigel,” she said. “In fact, his was the most thorough examination I have ever received in your office. It was also a refreshingly chatter-free examination, as Doctor Sansom seems more interested in practicing medicine than social niceties. It is his opinion that I am suffering from the gout.”She pointed a plump, ring-laden finger at her swollen foot. 

Janning tutted and wagged a finger at her. “Naughty girl! I’ve no reason to doubt his diagnosis, so make sure you heed his instructions. Carry on, Gilbert,” he said, and shut the door.

“He does have his charm,” Lady Swindon commented when the door closed. “Almost makes up for his outrageous fees.” She looked at Gilbert as if seeing him for the first time. “You’re Corman Sansom’s son, aren’t you? How silly of me, not realizing until just now, even though you have the same name. I remember seeing you here sometimes, when you were a small boy—hard to forget that golden mop of yours. Sir Corman was charming, too; I was very saddened to hear of his passing. And he was such a good doctor—if you are even half as good as your father was, young man, I will consider myself in good hands.”

Gilbert grunted and reached for his prescription pad, hoping to deflect any further reminisces about his father—or his boyhood, for that matter. “Now then, Lady Swindon, I won’t keep you any further. I’m writing you a prescription to take care of your immediate discomfort, and I suggest that you use a small footstool to keep your foot elevated.” He scribbled down some ingredients and notes. “But I must tell you, you will be susceptible to more attacks like this unless you make some changes to your diet.” He handed the sheet to his patient. “This is for your chemist.”

“Aren’t you a surgeon, Doctor Sansom?” she asked, taking the sheet. “I thought that only physicians like Sir Nigel and Sir Corman could give physic.”

Gilbert was used to the question. “Yes, madam, I am a surgeon—but I am also a physician, and I am licensed by the Royal College.” He indicated a lengthy trail of initials that followed his name at the top of the paper.

Lady Swindon cocked her head and regarded him. “That’s rather convenient, I must say,” she said. “I thought I would have to have a separate, more expensive, appointment with Sir Nigel. So, Doctor Sansom, what are these changes you wish to inflict upon on my poor person?”

Fifteen minutes later, after Gilbert helped Lady Swindon out to her waiting carriage, he strode down the hallway to Janning’s private office and, after taking several deep breaths, rapped twice on the gleaming, carved oak door. God only knew what Janning wanted, but it wouldn’t do to keep him waiting.

“Come in.”

Gilbert let himself in and stood just inside the room. “You wished to see me, Sir Nigel?” 

“Sit down, Gilbert.” Janning watched as Gilbert took possession of a high backed, upholstered chair. “I must admit, I had my misgivings about bringing you into my practice after Corman died,” he said. “You had a first-rate education, although why you chose to become one of those new-fangled ‘General Practitioners’—”

“I can give better care as both a physician and surgeon,” Gilbert retorted. It was not the first time that Janning had tried to ridicule his training.

Janning lazily waved off his argument. “It does seem that Lady Swindon agrees with you, and I have received similar compliments about the quality of your care from other patients. However, they have also commented on your lack of ‘social niceties,’ so I would like to remind you that these are very rich, influential people, and we cannot risk offense because you refuse to provide the occasional flattery or bit of charm. Your looks can only get you so far, Gilbert.” 

Gilbert studied his fingernails. “I should like to think that patients appreciate my knowledge and skills over my appearance, Sir Nigel.”

Janning laughed. “All those ladies in your appointment ledger aren’t there because of your stellar medical education, dear boy. Although you impressed the old bat today, I’ll give you that. Lady Swindon is formidable, but rich, and I expect you will soon have appointments from some of her equally rich friends. So well done, Gilbert—just try to be a little more pleasant.”

“Yes, sir.” Gilbert started to rise from his seat, but Janning raised a hand to stop him.

“Not just yet,” Janning said. “Your charm—or lack thereof—was not the main reason I wanted to see you.”

Gilbert eased himself back onto the chair and waited.

Janning opened a small, ornate box that sat on one corner of his desk, and withdrew a thin cheroot. Striking a match, he lit it, inhaled deeply, and then expelled a lungful of smoke. “You studied under Joseph Bell when you were at Edinburgh, did you not?” He watched the smoke form a hazy cloud over his desk.

“Yes,” Gilbert replied, frowning at the abrupt shift in the conversation, “most of my surgical training came from Doctor Bell.”

Janning tapped off some ash into a china dish. “And you also studied his method of forensic medicine, yes? I seem to remember your father blathering on about that at some point.”

Gilbert’s hands tightened on the arm of the chair. “Yes. Speaking of points, what is yours?”

The corner of his employer’s mouth quirked up at Gilbert’s insolence, and then thinned to a firm line. “Last night I attended my monthly Royal College Fellows meeting, and one of our members had some alarming news; apparently, there is a man in London who has gained some notoriety for performing ‘spiritual surgery,’ claiming that he can remove tainted tissue from a patient without cutting their flesh.”

“That’s impossible.”

“We are agreed on that,” Janning said. “Yet there are a number of people who maintain that this man removed objects from their bodies without making any incisions.” He studied the glowing tip of his cheroot. “He has also convinced people that some of their maladies are caused by ghostly attachments, and he claims to be able to remove these unwanted spirits. All of this, of course, for a hefty fee.”

Gilbert made a rude noise. “Idiots.”

“Yes, they very well may be, but this man is preying on _our_ clientele. Not only is he attracting the attention of an increasing number of wealthy socialites, but there is the very real concern that his quackery will tarnish the reputations of the legitimate physicians here in London.” The china dish clinked against the desk as Janning tapped his cheroot against it once more.

“He can’t be truly healing these people,” Gilbert said, “and it’s only a matter of time before someone dies because they saw this devil instead of a proper doctor.”

“Oh yes, that too.”

It took a great effort on Gilbert’s part to not roll his eyes. Of course, Janning was more worried about losing his wealthy patients than people actually losing their lives. “What does this have to do with my studies in Edinburgh?” he asked.

“I suggested that you would be the perfect person to find out how the blazes this man is doing this so-called ‘surgery,’ and and expose him for the fraud he is. Not only do you have surgical training, but you also have some experience with forensic medicine. In addition, your aunt, Lady Bosford, has society connections that will be useful in spreading the news once you’ve exposed his trickery.” Janning took another deep inhalation of his cheroot. “Everyone thought it was a splendid idea.”

“Of course they did,” Gilbert muttered.

“Now Gilbert, don’t be that way. If you succeed, there will be a Fellowship in your immediate future.”

Gilbert couldn’t help but be interested in the offer; while he was licensed with the Royal College of Physicians, to become one of their Fellows would vastly improve his chances of establishing his own practice. And getting his own practice would mean getting out from under Janning’s thumb. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll do it.”

“Splendid.” Janning crushed out his cheroot and then he tossed a folder onto his desk. “Here are some notes on what we’ve learned so far. A swift resolution would be most beneficial; I would like to have this wrapped up by next month’s meeting. We’ll need to free up your schedule, so I will take over some of your less demanding appointments and then reschedule the others.” 

Gilbert stood and took the folder. “I’ll do my best,” he said.

Janning pushed his spectacles up higher on the bridge of his nose, and the light from the overhead pendant light struck the lenses and made them gleam brightly. “Our reputations and livelihoods are dependent on your success, Gilbert. I should hate for you to disappoint us.”


	2. Chapter 2

Normally, Gilbert considered his once a week dinner with his Aunt Constance an odious affair. There was nothing wrong with the food itself—her cook prepared meals that were usually on par with the best dining establishments in London, the wines were always of excellent vintage, and her selection of fine aged liquor was superb.

It was the teasing and meddling that Gilbert couldn’t stomach, as well as her endless attempts at match-making.

But he needed her social connections to have any hope of succeeding in his task, so the following night Gilbert put on his good suit, stopped by a confectioner’s shop, and presented himself at his aunt’s imposing Piccadilly mansion for his weekly dose of fine dining and verbal abuse. The butler greeted him at the door, and Gilbert strode down a wide hallway whose walls were covered with works by some of Europe’s most famous artists. He passed ornately decorated, high-ceilinged rooms that were only used for parties, as he made his way toward the back of the mansion; his aunt preferred to spend most of her time in a smaller set of rooms that overlooked the wooded grounds of her property. Gilbert reflected that even though it took up less than a quarter of the mansion, his aunt’s ‘cozy suite’ was still bigger than the Arlington Street townhouse he had inherited from his father.

“I almost didn’t expect you to show up tonight, Nephew,” Lady Constance Bosford, Marchioness of Tenkigh, commented from the far end of the table when Gilbert entered the dining room. “Especially after the temper tantrum you had last week.” She turned toward the under-butler. “Tell Cook we’re ready for tonight’s masterpiece.”

“I was justified in my anger, Aunt,” Gilbert said, stepping aside to let the man pass. “Without my permission, you made plans on my behalf, and I ended up enduring a very uncomfortable evening with a young lady in whom I had absolutely no interest. It was a waste of my time, not to mention my money.”

“Hn. Perhaps next time I should set you up with a nice young man,” she said, “since it seems I am wasting _my_ time throwing young women at you.”

Gilbert scowled at her. “Next time, just don’t. I have no interest in marriage,” he said, ignoring the ‘young man’ jibe. He tossed a beribboned packet on the table next to her place setting. “Here are some of those meringues you like.” He took the seat opposite hers.

“Oooh, my favorite,” Lady Bosford clapped her hands, and then she arched an eyebrow at her reluctant guest and tapped an immaculately manicured fingernail on the patterned paper of the packet. “I doubt that this is a peace offering, so am I to deduce that this is a bribe?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Gilbert said. “It is indeed a bribe.” A footman approached and proffered a food-laden tray, and Gilbert made his selections and filled his plate. He nodded his thanks when a second footman filled his wineglass. “I need your help.”

“Good gracious,” she said, and then she called, “Mister Jirough!” 

The butler instantly appeared at the door. “Yes, my lady?”

“Jirough, I need you to make an entry in today’s ledger. Please make a note that my nephew Gilbert has asked me for help!”

“Yes, my lady.” The butler didn’t bat an eyelid, for which Gilbert was profoundly grateful.

While they ate their excellent dinner, Gilbert filled her in on his meeting with Nigel Janning, and when they finished their meal, they retired to the solar. Gilbert opened the folder he’d been given and shared the reports with his aunt while she poured their drinks.

“I’ve heard about this ‘Doctor Lee,’” Lady Bosford said, sipping her sherry as she settled onto the sofa opposite where Gilbert sat. “Several of my friends have hosted these sessions of his, and of course I was invited to attend, but I always declined. I thought it was silly nonsense, and a waste of money—would you believe that to attend, one must pay Lee a gold sovereign?”

Gilbert took a generous swallow of his port. “It _is_ silly nonsense, but it has Janning and the other Fellows worried enough that they’re willing to offer me a Fellowship to take care of the situation for them. Of course, they want it done as soon as possible; Janning is giving me a month.”

“A Fellowship would be marvelous, Gilbert, especially since you are not a conventional physician—oh please, don’t look at me that way; I completely agree that it is a better way to practice medicine, but the concept is still new, darling. It would be a great boost to your career, and would make it easier for you to start your own practice, although you know I am more than willing set you up now, so you can get away from that odious man—”

“No,” Gilbert said, cutting her off. “I won’t take that kind of help from you.” 

She smiled at him. “So proud,” she said, “but I wouldn’t have you any other way. I know I tease you, but I’m glad you have come to me for help with this matter. I should be able to secure an invitation by the end of the week, and I’ll make up some story about how you insisted on accompanying me.” She rose from the sofa and poured herself another glass of sherry from a collection of decanters on a nearby table.

Gilbert fetched his glass and followed her. “Thank you, Aunt Constance,” he said.

She waved off his thanks. “I must admit that I am curious now about seeing this strange doctor. We should invite Henry Choughton along, Gilbert; that poor friend of yours has spent far too much time in his own company since his wife died, and it would do him a world of good to get out of that huge, mouldery mansion of his. Besides, he’s just as clever as you and he might be able to help.”

“You just want to parade him in front of all the marriageable young women who will be there,” Gilbert retorted, although he was touched that his aunt would think of his friend. Henry might ignore his attempts to get him out more, but he wouldn’t be able to ignore Constance.

“Of course I do, darling,” she replied, “he’s one of the most eligible bachelors in London. I want to parade you, too, for all the good it will do me.”

Gilbert sighed and reached for the good scotch.


	3. Chapter 3

“I’m so glad you could join us tonight, Henry,” Constance said. She lazily waved a hand-painted fan at herself while their carriage bounced and jolted its way down a narrow, cobblestoned street. The air inside the carriage felt a bit stuffy, but by mutual agreement they had kept the windows shut to keep out the noise—and smell—of the busy London street they traveled on. “Gilbert has quite the mystery to solve, but I’m sure the two of you will figure it out.”

“Thank you for the invitation, Lady Bosford,” Henry replied, “and I’m always happy to help Gilbert whenever I can.” He returned to gazing out the dust-specked window.

Gilbert eyed his friend with a mix of exasperation and concern. Henry Gonow, fifth Earl of Choughton, had been his friend since their days at boarding school, and despite their differences in station they had remained close; Gilbert had been Henry’s best man at his marriage, and for several years he’d had a standing invitation to dine with Henry and his wife on Sunday evenings.

But two years ago, on a rainy winter night, Henry's carriage had overturned while he and his wife were on their way back to London from their country estate, and Henry had ended up in hospital, battling to recover from a ghastly abdominal injury. 

His wife Karenna had not survived her injuries.

After months in hospital, Henry had made a full recovery—physically, at least. But now, as Gilbert watched his friend stare into the deepening summer sky, he wondered if a large part of Henry’s spirit had died with his wife. He had helped to repair and heal Henry’s body, but Gilbert had no clue how to deal with a broken heart.

“When we get there, Henry, I think it best if we contrive to sit on opposite sides of the room,” Gilbert said in an attempt to break his friend out of his reverie. “That way, one of us might spy something the other has missed.”

Henry looked over at him and nodded. “Excellent idea,” he said. “Later on, we can compare our observances afterwards over an excellent brandy that I’ve been meaning to share with you.”

Gilbert wagged a finger at his aunt. “And you—don’t parade it about that I’m a doctor. I would prefer it if Henry and I attracted as little attention as possible.”

Lady Bosford smirked. “Darling, you could be a chimney sweep and you’d attract attention. Henry, too, for that matter. Come now, you aren't two Christians entering the lion’s den; surely gentlemen such as yourselves can handle the admiration of a few young ladies.” The carriage lurched to a stop inside the porte-cochère of a large mansion, and as Constance exited the carriage she glanced back at her nephew and said, “But I do promise to not brag about your profession.”

Of course, the dozen or so women in the parlor fawned over them anyway. There were several other men there, but they were passed over for the most part, and Gilbert was peripherally aware of the envious glances they cast in his and Henry’s direction.

Gilbert envied them for being ignored.

He was relieved that Henry, being possessed of a title, received the lion’s share of the attention, but he felt a pang of guilt when he saw his friend’s rigid posture. _Thank goodness there’s not that many of them,_ he thought. Henry’s expression was not unlike a deer standing in the road, staring at an oncoming carriage-lamp. For his part, Gilbert made stiff small-talk while he nursed a glass of sherry, mindful of the fact that he needed to stay in his hostess’ good graces; he already had a reputation for a lack of charm—it wouldn’t help him to be labeled as rude.

Their hostess, Lady Hempstead, circulated through the room, accompanied by a silver-haired young man dressed in traditional Chinese garb, who carried a red lacquered bowl. “This is Naka, Doctor Lee’s son and assistant,” she said. “Please place your sovereign in his bowl, and anyone who would like a chance to be chosen during the session should write their name on one of these paper slips, fold it, and put it in the bowl along with your coin.”

The young man held out his bowl to each guest, and as coins clinked in his bowl he would bow and murmur, “Xie xie,” in thanks. Gilbert fished a sovereign out of his waistcoat pocket and dropped it in the bowl, noting that on closer inspection, Naka looked to be somewhere between sixteen and eighteen years old; his delicate features and over-thin frame gave him the appearance of a younger boy. He frowned when he noticed a bruise peeking out from under the hem of one of his sleeves.

“No paper, sir?” The boy looked up at him, his gaze flicking to Gilbert’s golden-blond hair.

The last thing Gilbert wanted was to be chosen as a participant. He shook his head, and as Naka moved on to the next guest Gilbert glanced around the room and did some quick math. No wonder Janning and the Fellows were concerned, he realized; Doctor Lee was taking in close to thirty pounds in a single evening—and if he had even just one of these sessions a week, he had a very healthy income that rivaled some of the leading physicians in London. 

It certainly exceeded what Janning paid him.

More sherry and mingling and uncomfortable conversation went on for another half hour, until their hostess waved from the parlor doorway. “Ladies—and our handsome gentlemen,” she said, “our session with Doctor Lee will be held in the Library. Would you follow me, please?”

Gilbert managed to get a seat in the back corner, far enough away to be inconspicuous yet still affording a good view of the room’s setup. In the center was long table covered with a white tablecloth, and a smaller table a few feet away that held a silver tray, a candle, and a two-foot tall brass obelisk. Two ornate panels featuring embroidered dragons sat on brass easels on either side of the tables, and a number of tall standing candelabras had been placed along the outer edges of the seating area.

He was pleased to see that Henry had secured a spot on the opposite side of the room. Constance, of course, sat right up in front, and all the ladies laughed when she produced a pair of opera glasses from her reticule and brandished them.

She might be a pest, Gilbert thought, but she did make an excellent accomplice.

When everyone was seated Lady Hempstead’s butler reduced the remaining gas in the lamps in the room, leaving it only lit by the candles that surrounded them. The excited chatter ceased, and the guests were silent save the rustle of silk gowns.

A man entered the room, clad in a long, Chinese gown made of rich red brocade that buttoned diagonally across his chest, and then down one side. His black hair was caught back in a braid that fell to the middle of his back, and he sported an equally black goatee, the point of which reached his chest. He stopped in front of the table, and then he turned toward the audience and bowed deeply.

“Good evening, I am Doctor Lee,” he said in lightly accented English. “I am most grateful to Lady Hempstead for her kind hospitality this evening, and I am also grateful to you for your support.” He bowed again. He gazed above the audience’s heads, and then he pointed above them. “There are spirits here with us this evening,” he murmured, “and they were brought here by some of the people in this very room.”

A hushed murmur followed his declaration, but when Lee raised his hand the room fell silent.

“There are a number of reasons why a ghost will attach itself to a person,” Lee said. “Sometimes the living are so unwilling to let go of the dead that they create a thread between themselves and their lost loved one. Sometimes, a thread is created by unfinished business, or if the ghost was wronged by the person who is still alive.” He moved his hand, pointing to several spots in the air. “I have been gifted with the ability to see these threads, as well as the ability to cut them, thus freeing a person from the karmic ties the threads create. Naka, my son,” he said, gesturing at the boy who stood silently by the table, “bring me your bowl.”

The young man approached his father, and Gilbert noticed that the bowl now only held the slips of folded paper.

Lee held his hand palm down about a foot or so above the bowl, and then he slowly moved his hand until it was a foot beneath the bowl, and then back above again, and people gasped when a slip of paper slowly rose from the bowl and move up through the air into his hand. Lee grasped the paper, and then he unfolded it and read the name inscribed within. “Lady Priscilla Louden.”

Another gasp, another rustle of silk, and a woman in her mid-thirties timidly raised her hand. Lee smiled and made his way over to where she sat on the end of the second row of chairs.

“Good evening, madam,” Lee said, “a spirit in this room gave your paper to me. She is here with us now.”

As gasps once more filled the room, Gilbert strained to see the pale, translucent figure that seemed to hover in the air between Doctor Lee and the wall. He hoped Henry was getting a better view.

Lady Louden choked back a sob. “My mother,” she said. “She… passed away last year.”

It was all Gilbert could do to keep from rolling his eyes, although no one would see him so do in the darkened room. _Stupid woman,_ he thought, _telling Lee everything he needs to know._

“You have my condolences,” Lee said, and he put a hand on her shoulder. “Her passing was difficult for you.”

She nodded, and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, keeping her gaze on the ghostly apparition.

“You wish she had stayed with you.”

“Y-yes.”

Lee gestured at the flickering, silent figure. “Ah, but you see, she did stay. She stayed in this world, instead of crossing over to the next, because of your sorrow.” He cocked his head, as if listening to a voice no one else could hear. “She said your need was greater than her own.”

Candlelight glinted off the Lady Louden’s diamond earring as she tilted her head to look up at Lee. “But… shouldn’t she have crossed to the next world? Mother,” she said to the spirit, “you can go to Heaven now, I shall be fine.”

The figure blurred for a moment, but remained.

“Remember what I said about threads”? Lee said. “There is a thread between you and your mother, and it keeps her here in this world. If you are truly ready to let her go, I can cut the thread.”

“Yes, I’m ready,” she said, clutching at her handkerchief.

“Naka,” Lee said, gesturing to his son, who stood silently by the table, “bring my scissors.”

Gilbert craned his neck to watch as Naka took the silver tray off the table and carried it over to his father. 

Lee picked up a large pair of golden scissors, and then Naka took the tray back. “These may look like ordinary scissors,” Lee said, displaying them to the audience, “but I am able to use them as an instrument of my gift, to cut the threads that sometimes connect the dead and the living.” He looked at the pale figure beside him, and then at the woman. “She is ready, and she says that she is glad you are, too.” He held the scissors a foot or so above her head and snipped at the air once, twice, three times.

The apparition vanished.

Just like everyone else around him, Gilbert leaned forward in his chair, stunned by the sight. Excited murmurs rose from the audience, and then Lee raised his hand to silence them.

“Your mother has moved on,” Lee told Lady Louden.

“Thank you,” she said, and then she burst into tears.

While her neighbor comforted her, Lee walked back to the table, where Naka was waiting with his bowl. Once again, he moved his hand above and beneath the bowl, and once again a slip of paper rose through the air into his waiting palm.

“Thomas Cheswick,” Lee read from the paper.

A young man in the front row stood up.

“You may sit,” Lee said, and people in the audience tittered as Cheswick sat back down.

Lee regarded him. “You have a spirit tied to you as well, but it is inside you. There was anger between you, and when he died, you swallowed your anger. In doing so you swallowed his spirit as well.”

The young man stood again. “My uncle!” he said. “He cheated me of my inheritance, and when he died I couldn’t do anything about it, because my cousin inherited everything from him.”

Gilbert had actually overheard Cheswick talking about his situation in the parlor. If he had overheard, perhaps Naka had as well. 

Cheswick began to sit down again, but Lee held up his hand.

“It is not good to have a spirit trapped inside your body, young sir. Come here, and I will remove it, and then I can cut the thread that exists between you.”

Lee helped the man remove his jacket and waistcoat, and then moved him onto the table, where, with Naka’s help he unbuttoned the bottom portion of Cheswick’s shirt and placed clean cloths over his slacks and shirt. Then Gilbert watched in fascination as Lee cupped his hands on Cheswick’s abdomen and began to move his right hand as if he was searching inside Cheswick’s body. Several women cried out when a trickle of blood appeared between the fingers of Lee’s left hand.

“Please, not to worry,” Naka said, bowing. “All will be well.”

Lee moved his hand a few more seconds and when he lifted it up Gilbert could see a piece of what looked like bloody tissue, about the size of his thumb. Naka held out the bowl, and Lee dropped the bloody lump into it. He then wiped his hands on a clean cloth, and wiped Cheswick’s abdomen. He helped the dazed young man rise to a sitting position and said, “See, everyone, he is unmarked. I removed the spirit from young Mister Cheswick without cutting his body.”

A number of people in the audience applauded, and for the first time that evening Gilbert wished he’d sat closer. For it seemed to be true—there wasn’t a single mark on Cheswick’s stomach. His fingers twitched as he suppressed the urge to dash over and examine the man.

Naka handed Lee the bowl, and Lee took the candle from its holder and dipped the lit tip into the bowl. The bowl’s contents burst into bright blue flame, causing more exclamations from the audience.

But Gilbert’s gaze was fixed on the flickering apparition that had appeared on the other side of the room. Another ghost!

Lee handed the bowl to his son, who took it and offered him the tray that held the golden scissors. Lee picked up the scissors and addressed Cheswick, who was still examining his pristine abdomen. “To remove your thread, you must remove your anger. This man is dead, and the wrong he did you died with him. Do you wish to release him?”

“Good lord, yes,” Cheswick blurted out, and even in the room’s tense atmosphere his outburst prompted a few chuckles.

“Very well,” Lee said, and he held the scissors in front of Cheswick. One, two, three snips, and the spirit disappeared from view.

Almost everyone in the room stood and applauded while Lee helped the young man to his feet, and then Lee bowed deeply and said, “That is all for this evening. Thank you very much for your kind attention, and once again I thank Lady Hempstead for her hospitality. I ask that everyone leave the room now, so that Naka and I may purify it of any ghostly remnants.”

Lively chatter filled the room as people excited, and it didn’t escape Gilbert’s notice that Lee stayed in one place, while Naka helped to escort the guests out of the room. Henry and Lady Bosford were already in the parlor when Gilbert got there.

“Here, darling, have a glass of champagne, I know I certainly need some,” Constance said. “I don’t know what to think about what we just saw.”

Gilbert declined the proffered drink. “That was one of the more bizarre things I’ve seen in my life,” he said. “Aunt, I will meet you and Henry out at our carriage in twenty minutes.”

She poured the contents of the rejected glass into her own. “We’re not going to stay for the reception?” She sighed. “Well, that’s a shame; Violet Hempstead’s cook is almost as good as mine. Very well. What are you going to do?”

Gilbert glanced across the room, where Thomas Cheswick was busy showing off his stomach. “I am going to do my best to examine Doctor Lee’s ‘patient.”


	4. Chapter 4

“I still can’t figure out how he did it,” Gilbert said as he nursed his second glass of brandy. “There wasn’t a mark on Cheswick, not a single scratch.”

The two men sat in Henry’s study, a room that was surprisingly intimate considering the high, ornately plastered ceilings and the walls that were filled floor to ceiling with books. They weren’t even a fraction of the books Henry owned, Gilbert reflected idly, while he took another sip of the truly excellent brandy Henry had produced upon their arrival. Even the house’s library—which was twice the size of Lady Hempstead’s—only held perhaps a third of what Henry owned. The rest resided in a massive set of rooms in Henry’s Surrey country home, and Gilbert was pretty sure that Henry had read most, if not all, of the books in his possession.

“It was a very authentic performance,” Henry replied.

Gilbert sat forward in the overstuffed leather chair. “That’s exactly what it was, a performance, but I’ll be damned if I can explain it. I’m sure the ‘ghostly’ appearances can be attributed to trickery—and I’m positive that Lee’s son is an accomplice. I told you that I overheard Cheswick complaining about his uncle.”

Henry nodded. “I think we can assume that Naka was the one who chose the people who Lee selected. He was in the parlor almost the whole time we were there; I imagine he listened very carefully to the conversations around him. Did you also notice that except for the times he brought something to his father, they never stood together?”

Gilbert thought about it for a moment, and then he nodded. “You’re right. They were fairly far apart each time a ‘ghost’ appeared and disappeared.” He frowned. “Although they _were_ standing together when Lee levitated the names from the bowl.”

Henry took a sip of his brandy. “That particular trick was probably a simpler one.”

Gilbert scowled at him. “It’s not bloody simple if we can’t figure it out!” With a groan of frustration, he pushed himself back to sprawl in the chair. “I don’t know what to do. It’s not enough for me to say I think he did this or he probably did that—to be truly effective, I have to be able to reproduce that session in its entirety.”

“Three weeks is not a lot of time, Gilbert,” Henry said. “Lee probably spent years perfecting his techniques, much like a magician does.” He raised his glass to take another sip when he stilled.

Gilbert glanced at his friend. “What is it?”

Henry blinked a few times, his gaze focused not on Gilbert but on his desk that was on the far end of the room. “I wonder…”

“Master Gonow,” Gilbert drawled, in a perfect imitation of one of their schoolmasters, “are those thoughts floating about in the aether of your mind something you would care to share with the rest of the class?”

Henry laughed, and returned his attention to Gilbert. “You always did do the best imitations of those stuffy old beaks.” He turned the glass snifter in his hands, seemingly absorbed in the way the amber fluid moved within. “There may be someone we can turn to… someone who happens to be uniquely qualified to help us.”

Henry was taking the long way, Gilbert noticed, and he wondered why. “And this paragon of assistance is…?”

His friend’s gaze flicked up to meet his. “Joseph Shackleton.”

Gilbert flinched at hearing the name. “I don’t know how you think that person could possibly help us, or why you think I would ever accept such help.” He rose abruptly from his chair and went to pour more brandy.

“Oh come now, Gilbert, ‘that person’ was your friend—”

“He wasn’t my friend,” Gilbert snapped as he pulled off the cut-crystal top of the decanter with far more force than was necessary.

“No, he was more than that, wasn’t he?” Henry regarded him from his chair, eyeing Gilbert over the rim of his glass. “I know that you and Joseph had been lovers.”

Gilbert almost spilled the brandy. “How did you—”

“You hid it very well,” Henry said. “I think it helped that your personalities naturally abraded, so that everyone just assumed that you didn’t get along. And you are very good at hiding how you feel.”

“At least I didn’t hide behind a perpetual smile, like you did—and still do,” Gilbert retorted.

Henry chuckled, not the least bit offended. “No, you hide behind a perpetual scowl.” He rose and joined Gilbert at the side table, holding out his glass for Gilbert to refill. “You and Joseph were my closest friends during all those horrid years at Charterhouse; my only friends, really. I know something happened between you during that last summer your father had Joseph and me spend the holiday at your country home, when we were all sixteen and about to go into sixth form.” He smiled. “Those summers were some of the happiest times of my life. I still remember picking fruit in your father’s orchards, and enjoying the ‘fruits of our labors,’ as they were, in our meals and desserts.”

Gilbert still remembered, too; sitting with Joseph, high in the branches of an apple tree, watching him cut an apple with his pocket knife and protesting when Joseph pushed a slice of the fruit into Gilbert’s mouth; and moments later, when Joseph had leaned forward and licked stray droplets of juice from Gilbert’s lips, his sticky hand curled behind Gilbert’s neck, drawing him closer to steal slow, deep kisses that had left them both breathless and achingly hard. That night, and many nights afterwards, they had crept out of the house to meet in a tiny, unused gardener’s cottage, shedding their clothes and spending stolen hours pleasuring each other with eager mouths and hands. 

He stifled a curse when he felt his body respond to the memory, and he took a generous gulp of the brandy.

“I’m right, aren’t I?”

Gilbert nodded. “How did you know?”

Henry refilled Gilbert’s glass. “It was more in how Joseph acted, really. He’s the most honest of the three of us, you must admit; he never bothered to hide his thoughts or emotions like we did. It took me a bit of time to realize it, but there were times he looked at you like a lover does, even though you both continued to bicker just like before. And when we returned to school, he became rather… protective of you.”

Gilbert stared at his friend. “I always assumed that those wretched boys stopped grabbing my arse because we were in sixth form by then, and that they’d finally grown out of their nonsense. You mean to tell me that the reason was _Joseph?”_

Henry nodded. “I came upon him dispensing justice a few times, and while he’d always said ‘keep your filthy hands off my friends,’ the episodes were too close to times when you had been accosted to be truly including me as well.”

“That bloody idiot.” Gilbert sank back down in his chair. “None of this changes the fact that Joseph got involved with Banright and his ‘gang’ later that year, and that their disastrous association ruined everything. Or did you forget that after they were all expelled, you and I had been in danger of expulsion as well, simply because we were known to have been Joseph’s friends? It’s only thanks to my father and _his_ friendship with the Headmaster that we managed to graduate from Charterhouse without any taint.” He took another calming mouthful of brandy.

“I agree he was foolish,” Henry said, “and I won’t say that I wasn’t angry too, even though I knew he had been taken in by Banright’s poisonous opinions. But that was ten years ago, Gilbert, and people can change. Did you not get a letter from him a few years ago?”

“I threw it in the fire,” Gilbert replied, “unopened. And I did the same with every other letter he sent.”

Henry sighed. “Well, that’s a shame, because there was a sincere, heartfelt, apology in it, as well as an admission that he’d been a complete fool. Joseph has managed to do quite well for himself, in spite of not continuing his education.”

Gilbert frowned. “You’ve been corresponding with him?”

“We exchange a few letters a year, “Henry said. “He’s spent most of his time between Dublin and Edinburgh, with a little time on the Continent.”

“So Joseph admitted to being an ass,” Gilbert said, “and he has managed to make an honest living. Good for him, and good for you that you’ve rekindled your friendship. But what the blazes does Joseph Shackleton have to do with the problem at hand? How on earth can he help us?”

“Oh, I didn’t say that Joseph makes an honest living,” Henry said, a small smile playing on his lips. “Our erstwhile friend is now a professional magician. He’s apparently a rather famous one—he’s booked at the Egyptian Hall Theater in Piccadilly until September, and in his last letter he sent me two tickets, imploring me to come see the show.”


	5. Chapter 5

“You have _got_ to be joking,” Gilbert said as he stared at the huge marquee that hung above the entrance to the Egyptian Hall Theater. “’Baffler of the Senses?’”

Henry chuckled. “It’s certainly a colorful nickname,” he said, squinting up at the rows of ornately painted advertising, his lips moving slightly as he read the outrageous descriptions. “Apparently he’s also the ‘Darling of Europe.’” He pointed to a life-sized illustration that hung next to the marquee. “That must be him, with that red hair of his.” He gestured over to a similar banner on the other side. “I’m guessing that’s his partner, Goran Stone, the ‘Gypsy Prince.’ You must admit, ‘Shackleton and Stone, Magicians Extraordinaire’ is a rather catchy name.”

Gilbert looked up at the smiling portrait of his former lover. “Remind me again why I have agreed to this nonsense.”

“Because, Gilbert, you really have no one else you can turn to,” Henry said. “Do you want to approach total strangers instead?” He dropped a hand on Gilbert’s shoulder. “I have a feeling that he will be more than willing to help you.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Gilbert muttered as he followed his friend into the theater. 

He was rather surprised that the theater was filled to capacity. It was Gilbert’s first time in the venue, and after he and Henry seated themselves in their private box he looked around, taking in the ornate, vaulted ceiling and the intricate ironwork on the balcony and stage railings. “There have to be several hundred people here,” he said, and then he pointed in front of the stage. “There’s even a small pit orchestra.”

“Apparently, the show has been sold out for the next few weeks,” Henry said. “Like I said, he’s done well for himself. This is exciting! I’ve never been to a magic show before.”

Gilbert decided that if nothing else, the whole debacle would be worthwhile for the change it had wrought in his friend. Ever since the night of Lee’s session, Henry had been slowly coming out of his fog; they had dined in town earlier in the week, and Henry had even accompanied him to his weekly dinner with Constance. He knew Henry was looking forward to seeing Joseph again, and he vowed to remain civil, if only for Henry’s sake.

The gaslights above turned low, even as the lights along the front of the stage brightened. The conductor tapped his music stand, and the murmurs of the crowd were soon joined by the sounds of instruments tuning. 

“Showtime,” he murmured.

And then, with a drum roll and a blare of horns, Joseph Shackleton strolled onto the stage. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!”

As Joseph addressed the audience, Henry leaned over and murmured, “I don’t think we’re ever seen him in tails before, it suits him.”

It certainly did, Gilbert thought. The suit fit him so well that it was obviously bespoke. 

“The longer hair suits him as well, although I would never wear mine that length. I believe it’s all the rage in Italy right now.”

Gilbert watched the shining, deep red strands of Joseph’s hair brush against the shoulders of his suit jacket, and he didn’t trust himself to reply. A burst of applause forced his attention back to what Joseph was actually saying.

“…and now, without any further ado, let me introduce my partner in illusionary crime, Goran Stone, the Gypsy Prince!”

After another drum roll, a young, brown-haired man jogged out onto the stage, and then he executed a set of somersaults and flips that brought him to stand next to Joseph. He was clad in deep blue velvet pants that were tucked into calf-high boots, and beneath an intricately embroidered vest of the same color, he wore a billowing, pale blue satin shirt. Goran bowed deeply, and then the two magicians began their first trick.

As they escaped from locked chests, levitated in the air, and beheaded each other, Gilbert was surprised to realize he was actually enjoying the show. Joseph and Goran had an easy manner between them and the acts were set up to not just amaze the audience, but make them laugh as well. 

Midway through the show, the two men, dressed as safari hunters, wheeled a large basket to the centerer of the stage. Joseph went to remove the lid.

“Hey!” Goran said, “I’m pulling the tiger out of the basket tonight.” He tugged at the lid.

“You did it last time, it’s my turn,” Joseph said. “Besides, the tiger likes me best.”

They tussled over the lid, until it slipped out of their grasp and landed on the floor. What sounded like a loud growl emanated from the basket.

“Oh, you’ve done it now,” Joseph said. “You’ve made him angry.” He pointed inside the basket. “You’d better go down there and give him a treat.”

Goran turned toward the audience and rolled his eyes, and then he reached into the basket and withdrew a length of rope. People gasped when he threw the rope toward the ceiling and it hung straight in the air, dangling into the basket. He gripped the rope and climbed into the basket, telling Joseph, “It’s all your fault if I get et,” as he disappeared from view. There was a great clattering beneath the stage, and more growls. Suddenly, Goran appeared up near the ceiling, hanging onto the rope.

“Mister Shackleton!” he called down, “I forgot the treat! Can you bring it up?” He disappeared again.

Joseph sighed and pulled out a large, raw steak from the basket, and then he stuck it in his pocket, gripped the rope and began to climb. Just as he reached the top, Goran climbed out of the basket.

“What’re you doing up there? The tiger’s down here!”

“I’m going to feed you to the tiger, brat!” Joseph said, shaking a fist at Goran, and then he climbed up the rope—and appeared moments later in the basket. Goran helped him out.

They peered into the basket, leaning back quickly when there was another growl. “All right, you can pull him out,” Goran said, and the audience laughed.

Accompanied by a drum roll, Joseph carefully reached inside the basket, and then he lifted out an orange striped kitten who clambered up his arm to stand on his shoulder. “See,” he said, “Tiger likes me best.”

The audience erupted into laughter and applause, and Gilbert found himself applauding along with the others. Joseph bowed and waved to different sections of the audience, and when he turned to face their section he hesitated a moment, peering over at the box where Gilbert and Henry sat.

Henry waved.

“Put your hand down!” Gilbert ordered in a harsh whisper. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I think he saw us,” Henry said, as Joseph turned to wave at another section. 

“Well if he didn’t before, he bloody well did now!” 

Henry gave him a long look. “We’re going to visit him after the show, Gilbert, it doesn’t hurt to let him know we’re here.” He pointed back to the stage. “Oh look, he’s going to fire Mister Stone out of a cannon!”

Goran survived being a human cannonball, and he reappeared clad in his Gypsy garb, declaring that he would exact revenge on Joseph for always locking him up for most of their tricks. 

“I’m going to shackle _you,_ Mister Shackleton,” he said, opening a tall standing cabinet and pushing Joseph into it. He tied Joseph to the chair that sat inside, supplementing the thick rope with arm and leg shackles, and then he closed the door and wrapped the entire cabinet several times around with a heavy chain. Fastening a padlock to the chain ends, Goran reached in his pocket for the key, but couldn’t find it.

“Looking for this, Mister Stone?” Joseph called to him from the theater entrance. He was dressed once more in a formal suit.

There was more laughter and applause while Joseph walked down the centerer aisle, brandishing the key. The two men bowed and pushed the cabinet off stage, and when then they came back Joseph carried a single bottle of champagne. He walked to the front of the stage and addressed the audience.

“Thank you for joining us tonight,” he said, and he held up the bottle of sparkling wine. “Mister Stone, let’s share some champagne with our lovely audience before they leave us.” He winked at the ladies in the front row, who tittered in response.

“All of them?” Goran held a hand above his eyes and peered at the audience.

“Of course! It would be rude to only include the front row,” Joseph replied, “although they did pay more for their tickets.”

The audience responded with chuckles.

Goran came over and said in a loud stage whisper, “We only have the one bottle.”

Joseph waved a hand at him. “Details, details. Go get some glasses.”

Goran trotted off stage, and he returned with a large cart that jingled with the sound of hundreds of champagne glasses clinking against each other. 

Joseph lifted a glass from the cart, poured some champagne in it and handed it to Goran. “Everyone, just pass it along,” he said.

The tiny orchestra played a rollicking waltz as Joseph filled glass after glass, giving them to Goran, who handed them down to the people in the front row. Excited murmurs rose from the crowd as it became something of a game, passing the champagne back through the rows until within a surprisingly short time, everyone had a glass. 

Henry thanked the usher who brought champagne for him and Gilbert.

Joseph filled two more glasses, one for him and one for Goran.

“Tonight is a special night. Not just because all you lovely people came to see us, but because tonight, two of my oldest friends are here as well—friends I haven’t seen in many years. I won’t embarrass them by singling them out, mostly because one of them would likely murder me for doing so.” Joseph paused while the audience laughed, and then he continued, “Ladies and gentlemen, please, join me in a toast.” He held up his glass, looked right at Gilbert and said, “To old friends.”

The audience repeated, “To old friends,” and the theater was filled with the sound of clinking glasses.

“To old friends,” Henry said, and he tapped his glass against Gilbert’s. 

Gilbert remained silent, and he left his champagne untouched.


	6. Chapter 6

_They’re here._

_Gilbert’s here._

Joseph pushed open the door to his backstage dressing room with more force than was necessary, and for a moment he stood in the doorway and surveyed the spectacular mess that awaited him. “Should’ve paid that tuppence for a maid,” he muttered as he grabbed a pile of costumes and dumped them behind a hinged wooden screen.

They’d been in the Egyptian for less than a month, and Joseph hadn’t quite gotten around to organizing his space yet. He was used to the two of them having the full run of a place they rented, but they were sharing use of the Egyptian with two other acts, and he had decided it was better to keep all his gear in his room. At least it was a generously sized room, he conceded as he scooped up another pile of clothing. And it was in one of the best theaters in London. He’d share, for now, anyway.

“There and back again,” he murmured. He had returned to the town he’d left in disgrace years ago, and returned a success. The night’s audience had been the largest, most engaged yet, and—even better—Henry and Gilbert had been there.

_They’re here._

“Bloody hell,” he said, “they’re going to be here any moment.” 

“Who’s that, your friends?” Goran poked his head in the doorway. He was already dressed in his street clothes; Joseph always marveled at the speed with which Goran did things, whether it was changing, or eating, or pretty much anything.

Speaking of, maybe he could use some of that speed. “Yeah,” he said. “They’re be here soon, and this is a right mess. Help?”

“Sure,” Goran said, and he bounded into the room and started moving some of the equipment over to a back corner of the room. “Should’ve paid that girl, mate—tuppence was cheap to get everything put away all nice. Are these the blokes you told me about before? One is some fancy lord, and the other a doctor?”

“Yes, yes, and yes,” Joseph said, and he shoved a pile of wigs into a box and set them up on a shelf. “Henry’s an earl.”

Goran whistled. “Look at you, friends with fancy people. It was nice of them to come.”

“I sent Henry passes to the show,” Joseph said, “and he wrote and said he would attend, I just didn’t know when. I honestly never expected Gilbert to come.” He hadn’t really been able to make them out clearly at first, not with the glare of the stage lighting, but Henry had waved, and Joseph realized it was him, and then he’d glanced to the other side of the box and had seen Gilbert sitting there.

No mistaking that golden-blond hair.

Or that scowl.

“Come on, don’t make me do all the work!” Goran chided him. They made quick work of moving the rest of the crates, and within a few minutes the room was transformed into something more acceptable for receiving visitors.

“Thanks, mate,” he said.

Goran nodded, and then he eyed Joseph with a mischievous smile. “They must mean a lot to you, you’re all a-flutter. You’d think the Queen was coming to visit.”

Joseph cuffed him on the top of the head. “Don’t be saucy,” he said, and he shrugged out of his dress coat and carefully hung it on a waiting hanger.

Goran grinned at him. “We had a good night tonight! Good thing for you, since all that champagne’s coming out of your half.”

“That’s all right, I got a good deal on it. Besides, word will get out that sometimes you get champagne instead of wine.” Joseph tugged off his string tie.

“Don’t tell me all that champagne was for our benefit, Joseph.”

Joseph turned to see Henry standing in the doorway a few yards away from him, resplendent in black silk and wool, an emerald green silk waistcoat and a blindingly white shirt. Henry’s smile was wide—and, Joseph was relieved to see, genuine.

His gaze shifted to Henry’s right, and when he saw Gilbert standing there he almost forgot to breathe.

Good lord, he thought, there ought to be a law against a man looking that beautiful. 

He heard Goran’s quick intake of breath next to him, and Joseph knew his friend was having a similar reaction; Goran had a weakness for pretty things. Gilbert was still a hand shorter than he was, and ten years had not added much weight to his slender frame. His outfit was more modest than Henry’s, but he still managed to look elegant in a black wool coat and trousers, and a waistcoat made of deep violet silk.

_Matches his eyes._

Joseph realized the owner of those eyes was scowling at him, and he quickly recovered his composure. “Please, come in. Pardon the mess,” he said, “We’re still settling in.”

“Yeah, you should’ve seen it five minutes ago,” Goran said, and Joseph kicked his shin when he got within range.

“Goran, let me introduce you to my two oldest friends. This is Lord Henry Choughton and Doctor Gilbert Sansom,” Joseph said. He put a hand on Goran’s shoulder. “I know you gentlemen got the audience introduction, but this is Goran Stoenescu—he uses ‘Stone’ as a stage name because ‘Stoenescu’ is a bit too much in the mouth. We’ve been ‘Shackleton and Stone’ for what, five years now?”

“Six, if you count that back room in Dublin,” Goran said. 

Joseph watched as the three men exchanged handshakes, and then he held out his own hand to Henry. “Good to see you, Henry.”

Henry clasped Joseph’s hand with both of his. “Joseph, I’m so glad you invited me, it’s been far too long since we’ve been together. And I’m happy to see that you’re doing so well for yourself. I enjoyed your show immensely, it was great fun.”

Joseph smiled at his friend’s words. He hadn’t really worried about meeting Henry again; they’d always had a more easygoing friendship, and when Henry had responded to his letter of apology, their subsequent letters had fallen back into that easy camaraderie. Looking at him now, though, Joseph had an impression of fragility that hadn’t been there before. Henry’s smile and happiness for Joseph’s success was real, but it seemed as if it was a thin veneer that covered a much larger sadness. Henry had told him of his wife’s death two years before, and it was clear that her passing still cast a shadow over his friend.

He held out his hand to Gilbert. “I’m glad you came, Gilbert. It’s good to see you, too.” 

For the smallest moment Gilbert hesitated, and it seemed like an eternity before Joseph felt the warmth of Gilbert’s hand pressed against his.

“It was a good show,” Gilbert said, and he released Joseph’s hand.

Joseph could feel Goran’s watchful gaze; his friend had obviously noticed the marked difference in reception. But Joseph hadn’t expected more than that from Gilbert, and he was happy enough that Gilbert had come along, even if it was at Henry’s insistence. And besides, Gilbert never gave false praise, so Joseph took great pride in the grudging compliment.

“From the state of your dress, it appears we came back a little too soon,” Henry said. “But I wanted to invite you and Goran to join us for a late supper at the Red Lion; I booked the upstairs room, so it will be quiet and private. Will you come? Besides wanting to catch up with you, Gilbert and I have a matter that we would like to seek your help with.”

“Of course,” Joseph said, and his gaze flicked over to Gilbert’s closed, tight expression. It must be something important, he thought, for Gilbert to be seeking help. Especially from him.

Because oh, yes, Gilbert was still upset with him, even ten years later.

“Wonderful!” Henry said, and he handed Joseph a small card. “Here’s my card, give it to the barkeep and he’ll bring you upstairs. We’ll go on ahead and try not to drink all the wine.”

Joseph closed the door as they left, and he leaned against it and let out a long breath, releasing some of the tension he’d felt since he had seen the two men in the audience.

Goran stared at him, wide-eyed. “Bloody hell, Joe. You said one of your friends was a looker, but I ain’t never seen a man so pretty in all my life.”

“Yeah.”

“And he didn’t say but five words to you. You sure he’s your friend?”

“He was, once upon a time.” Joseph removed his collar, and then he undid the pearl buttons of his shirt. “Until I ditched him and Henry to run with a bad sort. I haven’t seen either one of them since I was expelled from Charterhouse.”

“So they were your school-mates, then? How’d you even get into the same school as them?” Goran plopped down onto the newly excavated sofa.

“I was a charity student,” Joseph said as he removed his shirt and set it aside to press later, “and Gilbert’s father was my sponsor. He took me out of the penny-school I’d been going to, and paid for everything—my tuition, clothes, and other expenses. I ended up sorted in the same house as Henry and Gilbert, and we became friends, although Gilbert and I were usually always arguing about something—we were both headstrong and proud.”

“Now, I’d never believe that about you, Joe,” Goran said, reaching over to poke Joseph’s leg, “though I can imagine why you’d enjoy getting him wound up.”

Joseph shot him a rude gesture. 

“You can’t fool me, mate,” Goran said, pushing himself to his feet. “You had a shine for him. Maybe you still have it, eh?”

Goran sometimes saw too much, Joseph thought, and he decided to deflect any further observances. “Well, look at him,” he said. “You’d have a shine for that, too.”

“Damn right,” Goran said with a laugh as he headed to the door, “although he looks like you’d be taking your life in your hands to sneak a kiss on him.” He paused, his hand on the glass doorknob. “So we’re going to the Red Lion?” He looked down at his plain white shirt, braces and brown trousers. “Guess I’d better change, yeah?”

Joseph snorted. “Yeah, mate, you show up like that they’ll put you to work instead of putting you at a table.”


	7. Chapter 7

“Good lord,” Goran said as the two men stood outside the Red Lion pub, “I’m glad I changed.” Goran was now dressed in a pair of black wool slacks, and he wore a double-breasted waistcoat made of patterned gold satin. He tipped back his black satin derby hat to get a better look at the black and gold trim of the pub’s exterior. “This place looks way too fancy for the likes of me.” 

“It _is_ too fancy for the likes of you—hell, it’s too fancy for the likes of me, too.” Joseph was similarly clad, although his waistcoat was single-breasted and high-necked, and made of red and black silk jacquard. He’d decided against his top hat, and most of his shoulder-length hair was pulled back with a black satin ribbon. He held up Henry’s card. “But we’ve got Lord Henry Choughton’s bona fide here,” he waved the card, “and that will get us places we’ve never dreamed of going to.”

“We never dreamed of being in Piccadilly, did we,” Goran pointed out with a smile, “but here we are. And we did it without an earl’s bonny fiddle.”

“Bon-ah fie-dee, you idiot,” Joseph said, drawing out the pronunciation. “It proves that we’re his friends, and it’s not just my say-so.”

Goran shrugged. “We keep having shows like tonight’s, mate, and they’ll need a boney fidey from us.”

Joseph laughed. “I like the way you think, Mister Stone,” he said, and he pushed the door open and went inside, Goran close behind him.

The interior took his breath away. Gleaming, dark cherry wood panels ran along the lower half of the walls, while the upper half boasted ornately carved and etched mirrors set in carved wood frames. The glass of the dozens of mirrors caught the light from the lamps that hung from the patterned plaster ceiling and scattered it like diamonds on the parqueted floor.

“Crikey,” he heard Goran murmur behind him, “it’s beautiful.”

“Can I help you, gentlemen?”

Joseph looked over to see the bartender eyeing them, and he marveled at the difference success and some money made; a few years ago he—and Goran—would have been tossed out within moments of setting foot in the pub, and now the bartender’s scrutiny was more seeing them as new customers, and not undesirables. He handed the card to the man. “My friends, Lord Choughton and Doctor Sansom, are expecting us upstairs.”

The man glanced at the card and handed it back. “Certainly, sir, if you’ll both follow me I’ll take you to them.”

Joseph and Goran exchanged amused glances as they followed the man up the stairs and down a narrow, carpeted corridor.

The bartender opened the door at the end. “Lord Choughton, your friends are here.”

“Thank you, Peter,” Henry said. “We’re ready for our meal now, and could you please bring up a few more bottles of your best red?”

Joseph pressed a few pence into the man’s waiting palm, and then he and Goran went inside. This room was not nearly as overwhelming as the downstairs; it had the same rich wood paneling and patterned ceiling, but it lacked the distraction of all the mirrors, having instead a number of framed artworks on the wall. A large dining table dominated the room, and Henry and Gilbert were already seated at the far end. Henry waved them over.

“Come, sit,” Henry said. “I ordered a few things for us to enjoy now, our supper will be up shortly.”

They nibbled on an assortment of cheeses and smoked meats, and made small-talk while they waited for their meal.

“So, Goran, you have a very unusual name,” Henry said. “’Stoenescu, is that Hungarian?”

“Very close, Lord Choughton,” Goran said. “My people are _Roma_ —Gypsies—from Bohemia, although I was born here, in England. I’ve been been very lucky, working with Joseph—many _Rom_ are not treated very well, but since I work in the theater, people assume that my real name is my stage name, and that I am not really a Gypsy.”

“Hiding in plain sight,” Gilbert said from across the table. “Clever.”

“It was Joseph’s idea,” Goran said. “We were trying to come up with our nicknames, because any magician of note has one, and Joseph picked ‘Baffler of the Senses—”

Gilbert snorted.

“Hey now,” Joseph said. 

“—and we needed something like that for me, but different,” Goran went on, ignoring the other two. “He said, ‘You’re really a Gypsy, let’s make you ‘The Gypsy Prince,’ and you won’t have to worry about your name.’ He’s right, though, ‘Stoenescu’ is too much, so we went with Stone.”

The waitstaff showed up with their food, and to Joseph his plate looked like a small feast, laden with three different kinds of fish, a thick-cut chop, and a large steak. Another server set common bowls of potatoes, peas, and a platter piled high with bread on the table. He sneaked a glance at Goran, and chuckled at the amazed delight on his friend’s face as he took in the bounty in front of him.

While they ate, Joseph told Henry and Gilbert some stories about their early shows, as well as their trip to Europe, and he managed to get Gilbert to talk about his medical training.

“So, you’re both a physician _and_ a surgeon?” he asked in between bites of his excellent steak.

“Yes,” Gilbert said. “There aren’t many of us yet—my classmates out of the University of Edinburgh are the first—but we are called ‘General Practitioners’ because we have a wider set of skills in treating patients. I can treat illnesses as a physician, but also injuries and other serious ailments that would normally have to be done by a surgeon. I originally went to Edinburgh thinking I would be a surgeon, but my father convinced me to try the new courses instead. I’m glad I did, it’s far more fulfilling than spending my days in a hospital, up to my elbows in blood.”

“Henry told me about your father,” Joseph said. “I’m very sorry for your loss. He was a good man, I owe my life to him.”

“You had a funny—” Gilbert stopped, wincing as if he’d been kicked, and then he said instead, “Thank you.”

_You had a funny way of thanking him._ Joseph knew that what was Gilbert’s intended response, and he also knew that Henry must have kicked him under the table.

“Do you still have the country house in Hertfordshire?” Joseph asked, “’River’s End’?” He saw Henry shoot him a grateful glance.

Gilbert took a long drink of his wine. “Yes,” he said, “I inherited both the townhouse on Arlington Street and River’s End, as well as a small place in Edinburgh. Fortunately, my annuity takes care of the upkeep on all three properties, and the orchards at River’s End keep it mostly self-supporting.”

“The house in the country has orchards,” Joseph told Goran, “apples, peaches, cherries—and in the summers Sir Corman would invite Henry and me to spend the summer holiday there. The three of us would go out every day and pick fruit with the workers, it was great fun.” Although the better fun, in his opinion, was stealing kisses high up in the apple trees, and moving his mouth over Gilbert’s naked body at night, tasting the summer sweat on his skin, and the bitter-sharp tang of his hard cock. 

“Don’t forget when we went out on the lake that one summer, and you fell in and convinced us you were drowning.” Henry said, and he turned to Goran. “The water came up to our waists.”

Goran giggled, and Joseph kicked him under the table.

“It was the best time in my life,” Joseph said, in all seriousness. He met Gilbert’s gaze. “I wouldn’t trade that time for all the money in the world.”

“I wouldn’t either,” Henry said, and he raised his glass. “To Sir Corman.”

“To Sir Corman,” Joseph repeated, and he touched his glass to Henry’s, and then Gilbert’s. He drained the glass, refilled it, and, emboldened by Gilbert’s storm-cloud gaze, leaned back in his chair and said, “So, tell me about this ‘matter’ you’re seeking help for.”

Gilbert told them about the so-called ‘spiritual surgeon,’ the session that they’d attended, and the concerns of Janning and the Fellows. “The man is obviously faking everything,” Gilbert said, “and not only is he raking in good money for his deceptions, but he is claiming to heal people with this bogus surgery. But for the life of me, I can’t figure out how it’s done, and in order to convince people of his fakery, I need to be able to show them how Lee is doing it.”

Joseph sat forward in his chair, his curiosity piqued. “So he’s claiming to remove tissue from a person’s body, without cutting them?”

“I watched him do it, albeit from a good twenty some-odd feet away,” Gilbert said, “and I examined the man who’d been operated on—there wasn’t a mark on him. If we hadn’t seen the procedure a half hour earlier, you would never know that Lee had put his hand in that man’s body and removed something.”

“Don’t forget the ghosts, Joseph,” Henry said.

Goran waved his hand. “That’s easy,” he said. “There’s a handful of ways to make apparitions appear, we’d just need to figure out which one. And it’s easy to make things look like they’re floating in the air. That’s why you need us, right? Because we know how to do all those tricks.”

Gilbert nodded.

Goran looked over at Joseph, a frown furrowing his brow. “But I never heard of a trick like that surgery one.”

“I haven’t either,” Joseph said, “but that doesn’t mean it’s not a trick. Everyone is always amazed the very first time a trick is performed, but usually, sooner or later, people learn how it’s done. And then it’s a question of losing the trick or changing it. Like the champagne last night,” he said, reaching for one of the empty bottles of wine. “That trick’s been done for two hundred years, in one form or another. People _know_ it’s not magic, and they know I’ve probably got a barrel of wine under the stage. What makes it work for us is that we make it fun, everyone gets a treat, and we’re not trying to make people believe it’s real.”

“I liked that about your show,” Gilbert said. “You were entertaining the audience, not trying to convince them that it was anything other than clever tricks.”

Joseph blinked at the unexpected praise. “Thank you,” he said. “We decided early on to not be serious about the ‘magic.’

“Chicken guts,” Goran said.

The three men gaped at him.

“What?” Joseph said. “Did you have too much to drink?”

Goran shook his head. “When I was a kid, my ma would pick dinner from the chickens that we kept in a pen near our caravan. She would kill it and gut it, and she would throw some bits to the dogs and then cook the rest. I asked her why we didn’t eat that, too, and she told me it was _marime,_ unclean, and we weren’t to eat it. Later, when I came to London, I worked for a butcher for awhile, and I learned that those bits were the chicken’s heart, liver and kidneys. The heart and kidneys are about this big,” he pointed at the top part of his thumb, “and the liver is about this big,” he held up his pointer and middle fingers, close together.”

“What I saw was thumb-sized,” Gilbert said, and Henry nodded in agreement.

“Easy enough to palm something that size,” Joseph said. “And it would be easy to get an almost endless supply of chicken gizzards.”He leaned back in the chair again, holding his glass of wine. “I’ll admit, I’m curious. But I need to know something, Gilbert; why are you doing this? For Nigel Janning? For those high-society physicians who charge an obscene amount of money to just write a prescription to the chemist’s? I remember Janning from when he would visit your father’s house; he was a nasty piece of work, and I never understood how he got to be your father’s friend. Don’t know that I want to help _him.”_

“I have been promised a Fellowship in the Royal College of Physicians if I can expose Lee as a fraud,” Gilbert said. “Normally only physicians who have studied at Oxford or Cambridge can become a Fellow, but they are willing to make an exception if I am successful in this task.”

Joseph had an idea of how Gilbert would benefit, but he wanted him to say it. “And what does being a Fellow do for you?

“It will give me sufficient status to be able to have my own practice, and will give me privileges in any hospital in London,” Gilbert said. “And both of those things will enable me to leave Nigel Janning’s employ.”

Joseph decided to push a little harder. “So, are you asking me to help the Fellows, or are you asking me to help _you?_ ” He ignored Goran’s puzzled look, and focused his gaze on Gilbert, watching the way Gilbert’s jaw tightened, the way the little pulse jumped at his temple, and the way his eyes darkened to a lovely shade of amethyst.

After a moment, Gilbert met his gaze squarely and said, “I’m asking you to help me.”

_God, he’s lovely when he’s angry._

Joseph held out his hand. “Always happy to help a friend,” he said, and this time the hesitation was shorter before Gilbert’s hand clasped his.

“Thank you,” Gilbert said, while Henry applauded.

Joseph drained his glass. “I think the best thing is for me and Goran to try and watch a session, and do a bit of espionage. I’ll get in touch when we have some more information.”

“Here’s my card,” Gilbert said, “it has my London address. I’ll ask my aunt to contact you, since she knows almost everyone who’s gotten taken in by this nonsense.”

Joseph took it and tucked it into his waistcoat pocket, and then he stood, prompting the others to rise as well. “Henry, thank you for an excellent meal.”

“Yes, thank you, Lord Choughton,” Goran said.

Henry waved a hand, “Do call me Henry,” he said, “we’re co-conspirators now, are we not? Besides, you are Joseph’s friend, which makes you my friend.” He gestured to Gilbert. “And call him Gilbert, for it will annoy him and give Joseph and me some amusement.”

“You’re sounding dangerously like my aunt, Henry,” Gilbert said, and he held out a hand to Goran. “I appreciate your help as well, Goran, and you may call me Gilbert.”

After bidding their farewells, Joseph and Goran made their way downstairs and out to the street, where Joseph hailed a hansom cab to take him and Goran back to their rented rooms on Warwick Street.

“I like them,” Goran declared, as the cab bounced its way along the narrow city streets. “It’ll be fun, figuring out the tricks, and maybe we can even learn something that we can add to our show. I’m glad you decided to help, even though you gave your Gilbert a hard time about it.”

“I gave him a hard time because he _hates_ asking for help,” Joseph said, “and he’s not ‘my Gilbert.’”

Goran’s teeth flashed white in the semi-dark as he smiled. “Maybe he wants to be.”


	8. Chapter 8

“We’re gonna get caught.”

“No, we’re not,” Joseph said. “If anyone questions us, we just say we’re lost.” He glanced down the long service hall. “We need to find a place for you to watch the session, I need both our eyes in that room!” While Joseph was more proficient than his partner at sleight-of-hand and showmanship, Goran was much more mechanically inclined, and was the better person to suss out the nature of the ‘ghostly’ part of the performance.

The two men were decked out in servant’s livery; Joseph in the long box-coat of a coachman, and Goran in the more trimmed out jacket of a footman. Joseph was determined to get the name of Lady Bosford’s tailor, for the clothes were not only immaculately fitted, but they had been completed practically overnight. He could use that kind of talent for costume commissions.

Goran tugged at the high collar of his starched shirt. “Lady Bosford should have made me her coachman. If I were the coachman, I’d get to sit and watch in the back with the other servants.”

Joseph snorted. “You’re kidding, right? Not only am I at least five years older than you, I’m a head and a couple hands taller! No lady in her right mind would have you for a coachman when she could have me. You just didn’t like her pinching your cheeks and calling you adorable.”

“She’s scary, mate,” Goran said. “She’s nice enough, but I can see why your friend—”

“Many pardons, but you should not be here.”

They turned to see a young man standing in the hallway. He wore a deep blue Chinese tunic that Joseph knew was no costume, and his silver hair was pulled back in a tight bun at the back of his head, although a number of shining strands had escaped to frame his thin, pale face. He carried a red lacquered bowl that was filled with gold sovereigns and slips of paper.

This must be Lee’s son, Naka, Joseph realized. _Bloody hell._ “Don’t mind us, young sir,” he said quickly, “we’re here with our mistress and are a bit lost.” He risked a quick glance at the bowl’s contents, and noticed that two of the paper slips were folded off to one side. _Must be tonight’s picks._

“I am sorry,” the boy said in accented English, “I cannot help you. But you should not be here, my father will be angry if he sees you—the Lady of the house promised this area to us tonight.”

“I’m sorry, it’s my fault,” Goran said, and he pointed at Joseph. “He’s the lucky one—he gets to watch your show with the other servants.” He smiled at the boy. “I really wanted to see it, too, I heard that you and your dad are pretty amazing! But the ladies are only allowed to let one servant come and watch.” He hung his head, seemingly dejected, and scuffed his shoe on the carpet runner. “I’m just a stupid footman.”

Joseph reminded himself to compliment Goran on a stellar acting job.

A small smile flitted across the young man’s otherwise serious face. “You have heard stories about me? Not just my father?”

Goran nodded. “Yeah! I heard that you can make the people’s papers fly up in the air, right into your dad’s hand! And you’re not even touching them, is what my friend said. That’s amazing!”

“No, no,” Joseph said, catching on to Goran’s intent, “ _I_ heard that the old man does all the magic.” He pointed at Naka. “This one’s just the helper… the assistant. Like you,” he said with a sneer.

Goran moved to stand next to Naka, and he crossed his arms and glared at Joseph. “Liar. I think he’s got more magic than his dad—he’s the one who finds the people who have ghosts! That’s more important.” He jutted out his chin. “You go on and watch, Mister ‘I’m the Coachman.’ I guess I’ll have to just hear about it, _again,_ instead of seeing it for myself.”

Joseph had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. “You’d better watch your sauce, Mister Stupid Footman,” he said, looking down his nose at Goran, “or you won’t be hearing anything about it from me.” He stomped off down the hall and ducked inside the nearest alcove, standing as close to the hallway as he dared, so he could hear the two young men.

“He’s so mean,” he heard Goran say. “He told he if I gave him my desserts for a week he would sneak me in.” Goran sighed. “I’d better go, I don’t want to get in _more_ trouble. But it was so great to meet you! I’m Gordon.”

“I am Naka,” the boy replied. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Gordon.” Joseph had to strain to listen as Naka’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I can find you a place where you can watch, if you want.”

“Really?” Goran whispered back.

“Yes,” Naka replied. “Also, if you want, I can complain about that coachman to Lady Tillsworth, and she will make him leave.”

_That little shit,_ Joseph thought.

“No, no, that’s all right,” Goran told him, “if you do that he’ll blame it on me and I’ll catch all hell later.”

“Wait here,” Naka commanded, “I must put away the coins and get the…” he hesitated, then continued, “I mean, the papers can’t show me which people have ghosts if there is any metal near them. I’ll be back and then I will show you a place where you can watch me.”

Joseph had to admire the kid’s quick recovery. He also admired Goran’s quick conquest—but then again, his young Gypsy friend could charm the scales off a fish when he put his mind to it.

Hearing Goran’s ‘all-clear’ whistle from down the hallway, Joseph slipped out of the alcove and headed into the ballroom that was being used for the afternoon’s session. He admired the setup of the space; the curtains had all been drawn, leaving the room lit only by the large gas-lit chandelier in the center of the room. He saw several rows of chairs, and at the very front was a long table covered in richly embroidered cloth, and a smaller side table that held a few curious looking items. On each side of the table, a few feet away, stood two easels that held large, ornately framed panels of Chinese embroidery; golden dragons on a background of deep red satin. 

They had set quite an exotic stage for their show.

He yelped when Lady Bosford rapped him on the shoulder with her fan. “There you are, naughty boy,” she said. “Go stand with the others before I change my mind and make you wait with the horse.” With a flick of her wrist, the fan opened, displaying several dozen narrow, ornately painted panels. “I trust you took care of my footman?”

“Yes, my lady,” Joseph replied.

“Very good,” she said, and then she sauntered over to join some other ladies near the front row.

Gilbert might complain about his aunt, Joseph thought, as he made his way to the back wall, but she was pretty damn useful. He took his place with the other servants, aware of a number of disapproving glances directed at his tied-back hair. He hoped no one would recognize him.

His worry was alleviated a few moments later when the lights were lowered in the room, so Joseph turned his attention to Lee and Naka’s routine. He had to admit, the man was good, and because he made a ritual of the steps in the presentation, people didn’t think to notice that the ‘ghosts’ appeared after Naka returned to the table that held the red bowl, a pair of gold scissors, and a seemingly useless brass obelisk. The misdirection was excellent—as far as Joseph could see, all eyes were on Lee, leaving Naka free to turn the apparitions on and off by turning the gleaming brass object. 

Joseph was grateful for his height when it came time to watch Lee to perform his ‘surgery.’ Just as in the session Gilbert attended, a man was selected, and Joseph wondered if that was always done. Most likely, he guessed, since no well-born lady would ever consent to baring their stomach in public. He watched where Lee placed his hands, as well as the movement of his shoulders while the man performed his ‘operation.’ 

People around him gasped when Lee held the tissue aloft, and Joseph hoped Goran had a good view; the bloody lump looked to be about the size that Gilbert described, and from what Joseph remembered from his quick trip to a local butcher the day before, it looked like it could be a chicken heart. He thought that burning it in the bowl was brilliant—not only did fire get rid of any resemblance to poultry innards, but the tiny sparks he’d noticed along the bowl’s edges told him that the flame had also burnt away the razor-thin wire that must have been used to ‘levitate’ the paper slips.

Mixing copper chloride with the alcohol to make it burn with a blue flame was a nice touch.

He shook his head; what was he doing, admiring the man like he was a fellow performer? Joseph had no patience for those of his profession who claimed to be ‘spiritualists,’ and he heartily applauded whenever another magician would expose a sham. 

And by God, this was a sham.

After Lee declared the session was over, he asked the audience to leave quickly so that he and Naka could ‘purify the room of any ghostly remnants.’ Purify, my arse, Joseph thought, they needed to take down all the glass and other apparatus that projected the ghost-like images. Judging by how long it used to take him and Goran to pack up after a show, Joseph estimated they had less than an hour before Lee and his son left.

Joseph intended to follow them.

“Lady Bosford, we need to get you back home,” he said as he followed Constance out of the room, keeping his voice low even though it was unlikely he would be heard over the excited chatter in the parlor. “Goran and I are going to follow the good doctor when he leaves, which will be in less than an hour.” He saw Goran appear in the hallway, and waved him over.

Constance Bosford sighed. “I have to miss the refreshments _again?_ First Gilbert dragged me away, and now you want to as well. I think I will exact my revenge by making you all come over for dinner when this dreadful nonsense is over.” Her tone was one of complaint, but her dark eyes were sparkling with mischief.

He turned to Goran. “Wait for me in the mews out back when you return,” he said.

Once he had Lady Bosford safely ensconced in her carriage with Goran at the reins, Joseph headed toward the narrow alley on the left side of the house, making sure his manner was certain and unhurried, as if he was absolutely supposed to be there and wasn’t sneaking around at all. Once he was in the dim light of the alley, Joseph picked up his pace and trotted back toward the rear of the house, ducking behind a group of large dust-bins when he heard voices speaking in another language.

Chinese, he assumed, and from the sound of things, Lee was ordering his son around. Joseph risked a peek into the back courtyard, where he discovered Lee and Naka loading up a wagon. Naka came out of the house with one of the two large panels Joseph had seen in the ballroom earlier, and something about the way Naka carried it made Joseph realize that he wasn’t simply carrying a framed satin panel—the young man was leaning in a way that suggested he had a heavy, unbalanced load.

Once again Joseph had to keep himself from admiring Lee’s ingenuity; he was willing to bet a goodly sum that those panels also held the glass and mirrors that were used to project the ‘ghosts.’ The frames were thick enough to provide hidden storage, and no one had questioned their presence at all—in fact, he had overheard a number of people commenting on how the embroidered dragons contributed to the exotic atmosphere of the room.

Naka disappeared into the house and came back a few minutes later with the obelisk, platter and bowl. As he crossed the courtyard to the wagon he stumbled on a raised cobblestone and tripped, and the items flew from his hands and landed with a clang a few feet away, the bowl’s contents scattering all over the pavers. The young man scrambled to pick everything up, but he wasn’t quick enough for Lee, who unleashed a torrent of any Chinese at Naka while he cuffed his son hard enough to send him sprawling to the ground.

Naka’s cry of pain made Joseph clench his fists, and his fury increased when he saw the mottled bruises that were revealed when Naka’s tunic top rose up above his waist. The young man stammered out an unintelligible apology as he pulled himself to his feet and retrieved the fallen items.

Joseph heard the crunch of gravel, and he looked across the mews and saw Goran pull up with the carriage on the other side of the narrow service alley, his coat collar turned up and his hat pulled down low to disguise his features. Goran whistled a bright melody as he dismounted and tended to his horse, and Joseph recognized the tune as one of their older signals; this one meant ‘ready and waiting.’ 

When Naka followed Lee into the house, Joseph seized the opportunity to run across the courtyard to join Goran—but not before he stopped and snatched a blackened, thumb-sized bit from the ground. He stood behind the carriage, catching his breath, careful to stand in front of one of the wheels so that it would be difficult to see his legs from the house. Goran cheerfully ignored him, talking instead to the horse.

“Don’t you worry, old man,” Goran said as he scratched behind a silky black ear, “We’ll be heading out soon, and I’ll give you a right good adventure.”

A few minutes later, Lee and Naka climbed into their loaded wagon. Lee yanked on the reins, snapped something angry-sounding at the horse, and the vehicle creaked as they pulled away.

Goran hopped up into the driver’s perch while Joseph climbed into the carriage and sat on the padded leather bench.

“Didn’t know horses spoke Chinese,” Goran said, and then he clucked at the horse and flicked the reins.

There was no opportunity for the two men to talk while Goran skillfully maneuvered the carriage, keeping Lee in sight yet staying far enough behind to avoid suspicion. Joseph studied the charred bit in his hand, and when he sniffed at it he caught a whiff of rubbing alcohol and the tang of copper. He wrapped it in a handkerchief and tucked it into his coat pocket to show Gilbert later. Joseph found it hard to focus on the wagon in front of them; he still seethed with anger at Lee’s mistreatment of his son, mistreatment that was obviously a habit, given the varying colors of the bruises on the boy’s back. He wondered why Naka didn’t just run away, and then he realized that the boy probably felt that he had nowhere to go. For the most part, Chinamen were viewed with distrust—much like Gypsies—and Joseph imagined that Naka would have a hard time getting by on his own in the streets of London.

The elite neighborhood gave way to dingy, ill-kept streets, and stately mansions were replaced by a hodge-podge of brick warehouses and tenements. Up ahead, Lee made a series of sharp turns, which Joseph hoped Goran was keeping track of, and he leaned forward in his seat as Lee halted in front of one of the smaller warehouses, a one story affair that had a mix of brickwork, tall, arched windows, and a steep slated roof. The glass windows were painted black, Joseph noticed, allowing no view of the building’s interior. He watched as Naka jumped down to unlock and open a set of arched, wooden double doors, and he took note of the peeling, robin’s-egg blue paint. 

Joseph rapped on the roof of the carriage, signaling Goran to halt. He watched Lee drive the wagon inside, and rusty hinges squealed as Naka pulled the tall doors shut. Joseph scanned the area, memorizing the surrounding buildings and landmarks. He craned his neck to catch a flash of white on the edge of a dilapidated factory—

_Thrawl St._

“Gotcha,” he murmured. When he rapped on the roof again Goran spoke to the horse, and the carriage jerked into motion once more—swiftly this time, to take them as quickly as possible out of one of the worst parts of London. “We’ll be back.”


	9. Chapter 9

Of all the many rooms in his townhouse on Arlington Street, Gilbert considered his study the only room that was truly _his_.

Corman Sansom had been both an avid traveler and collector, and so the house was filled with paintings, furniture, and other objets d’art that had been amassed during his considerably active life. Growing up, Gilbert had sometimes felt as if he lived in a museum instead of a home.

Right after his father’s death, Gilbert had been reluctant to dispose of all the bric-a-brac that littered the house, finding comfort of a sort in the familiar. As time went on and more of his nights were given over to writing up patient notes, Gilbert found himself using the other rooms less, so then it didn’t really matter. His world narrowed down to the offices of Janning’s practice, his aunt’s suite, the occasional dinner out with Henry, and his study and bedroom.

The study was a sanctuary of sorts, a place where he could enjoy a pipe without the butler’s disapproval—well, the old man still made a face, but since _Corman_ had smoked in the study, Gilbert assumed Clarke was lamenting Young Master Gilbert’s entrapment in the Evils of Tobacco. The room also offered a splendid view of Green Park, allowing Gilbert to sometimes forget that he was in the heart of London.

Gilbert sat at the massive oak desk and packed a pipe while the setting sun brushed the treetops with splashes of orange, yellow, and pink. Those same colors flashed along the bevels in the large, leaded glass windows that made up most of the back wall of the room, scattering prisms of light on the wool rug. He lit the pipe, letting the tobacco char a bit, and then he settled back in his chair and enjoyed a few puffs before he pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time.

He should have heard from Joseph by now.

His aunt had sent him a quick note when she had returned home from the latest session, advising him of Joseph’s intention to follow Lee. But that had been several hours ago, and Gilbert frowned at the worry that nipped on the edge of his thoughts. 

Damn Henry for bringing Joseph back into their lives.

A knock on the door brought Gilbert out of his brooding thoughts.

“Excuse me, Master Gilbert?” Clarke, his butler, opened the door and poked a balding head in the room. “A Mister Shackleton is here to see you.”

Gilbert exhaled, and he felt a measure of tension leave him, although he refused to identify the sensation as relief. “You can bring him up here, Clarke.”

“Yes, sir.” Clarke paused. “Sir? If you don’t mind my asking, isn’t he the same Shackleton boy who your father took on all those years ago? He looks familiar—hard to forget red hair like that.”

“One and the same,” Gilbert replied.

“Would you look at that,” the elderly man said, “he was a boy from the slums, and now he’s a famous magician. Sir Corman would have been delighted, I think.”

In spite of himself, Gilbert laughed. “You know, Clarke, you’re right.”

“I’ll go fetch him now, sir.”

Gilbert pulled a few more puffs from his pipe, and while he smoked he contemplated the butler’s words. Clarke _was_ right; even though his father had been disappointed with Joseph’s conduct and the ensuing expulsion from school, if Corman were alive today he would have taken great pride in the way that Joseph had succeeded in spite of that earlier disgrace, and he would have bought front row tickets to see Shackleton and Stone, Magicians Extraordinaire. 

He snorted; either way, he would have met Joseph again, whether dragged there by Henry or his father.

“The house still looks the same.”

Gilbert looked up and saw Joseph standing in the doorway, clad in a coachman’s coat. “Come in,” he said. “Can I offer you a drink?”

“Oh, God, yes.” Joseph undid his coat and slung it over the back of the sofa while Gilbert poured them both a generous glass of cognac. “I’d love a bit of your tobacco, too, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Help yourself.” Gilbert handed him the drink and waved in the direction of the smoker’s cabinet next to the fireplace. Instead of sitting back at his desk, he sat in one of the chairs opposite the sofa and took a sip of the cognac. “What are you doing wearing servant’s livery? Part of some harebrained scheme of my aunt’s, I suppose.”

“She had me and Goran pretend to be her coachman and footman,” Joseph said while he prepared a pipe. “Lady Tillsworth allowed a group of servants to watch the session, so I was able to get in the room.” He took a swallow of the cognac. “Good lord, that’s fine.”

“I’ll have to send Aunt Constance some chocolates and a bouquet,” Gilbert said. “She has proved exceedingly useful, although I fear she is enjoying herself a bit overmuch.”

Joseph grinned as he sat down on the sofa. “She is. She’s threatening us all with dinner at her house.” 

“At least there will be safety in numbers,” Gilbert said.

For a few moments the two men were quiet as they attended to their pipes. 

“I can’t get over how little this house has changed,” Joseph said. “I feel like I’m a kid again, coming to stay here over the winter holiday. I’m surprised you’ve kept everything, Gilbert, this really isn’t your style.” He waved back at the masks, statues, and other carvings in the hallway.

Gilbert shrugged. “What would I do, sell them? Who would want this junk?”

Joseph pointed at him with his pipe. “It’s not junk. That new museum in Kensington would go mad for all this stuff.”

Gilbert hadn’t even considered a museum. “That’s not a bad idea,” he said.

“’A gift from Doctor Gilbert Sansom,’” Joseph intoned, “’in honor of his father, Sir Corman Sansom.’” He took several deep puffs from his pipe and blew an impressive set of smoke rings into the air. “Then you’ll have to travel about and find your own stuff to replace it.”

“I think I would prefer this place much better uncluttered, thank you,” Gilbert said. 

“So,” Joseph said, leaning back and draping an arm across the plush back of the sofa, “your ‘Doctor Lee’ is definitely a fraud, and I’m pretty sure Goran and I can duplicate his routine.” He told Gilbert of his observances during the session, his theory about how they stored the glass and mirrors, and then he pulled a wrapped packet from his coat pocket and gave it to Gilbert. “Naka tripped out back, and this fell from his bowl,” he said. “I’m sure you have ways to test it, but I’m pretty sure that’s a chicken heart, and it smells as if Lee treated it with alcohol and copper chloride.”

Gilbert opened the handkerchief and examined the charred lump he found within. “Copper chloride?”

“For making that fancy blue flame. You can make fire be any color of the rainbow, if you have the right chemicals.”

“I’ll take it to the laboratory we have in the back of Janning’s offices,” Gilbert said, “and do some proper testing on it.” He rose and put the bundle on his desk, and then he refilled their glasses. “My aunt said that you were going to follow him after the session.”

“We did,” Joseph said, “we followed him right to a small, run-down warehouse in the middle of Whitechapel.”

Gilbert whistled. “Nasty part of town.”

“Nasty place for a nasty man,” Joseph said. “That Lee is a right bastard, Gilbert; he’s beating Naka—when the kid fell his tunic flew up, and his back was covered in bruises.”

Gilbert’s mouth thinned to a grim line. “I noticed a bruise on his upper arm, just beneath his sleeve hem, when I saw him,” he said, “so you’re probably right. But I’m afraid there’s not much we can do.”

Joseph sat forward, his drink sloshing in the glass. “Not much we can do? We can tell the police!”

Gilbert shook his head. “It’s not that simple,” he said. “Lee is his father, and there’s also the complication of his being a Chinese immigrant. I highly doubt that the police would intervene.”

“We have to do _something.”_

Joseph’s agitation was obvious, and Gilbert wondered at the intensity of his reaction. “Let’s take care of Lee first,” he suggested, “and in the meantime we can try and find some solutions for Naka.” Between his aunt’s connections and Henry’s influence, Gilbert figured they would be able to set the young man up with a place to live and possibly employment.

“All right,” Joseph agreed, albeit grudgingly, and he walked over to the smoker’s cabinet and began to clean out his pipe. “So, for _our_ session, Goran and I talked about things a bit before I dropped him off on my way here. We think it would be best if we had a fairly large space, like a decent-sized ballroom, because we’re going to want to have a lot of people there. Like I said, we’re confident that we can re-create everything.”

Gilbert joined him at the cabinet, and as he re-packed his own pipe he was uncomfortably aware of their proximity; he fought to keep from jerking away when Joseph’s hand brushed against his as Joseph reached for the cleaning brushes. How silly, he thought, to still be affected by this man, so many years later. “My aunt has offered us the use of her residence,” he said, stepping back once he’d finished with his pipe, “but she wants to ask Henry to host the event at his place in Surrey. She feels that an invitation from the Earl of Choughton to spend a weekend at Hakken Hall—and see a very exclusive performance by Shackleton and Stone—will bring every matchmaking society woman out of the woodwork, with marriageable daughters in tow.”

Joseph laughed. “Your aunt is a bloody genius, mate. I completely agree. And, not only will it put ‘meat in the seats,’ as we like to say, but it will make Henry have to prepare his house for visitors. Something which, I’ve gathered from his letters, he’s not done in a long time.” He set his pipe in the carved holder, and shut the cabinet door.

“No,” Gilbert said. “Not since Karenna died.”

Joseph met his gaze, his smile fading. “He seems like a ghost of himself, Gilbert.”

“You’re not wrong,” Gilbert said, “but I think he might be starting to re-join the living. He’s been much less stubborn about going out lately, and it seems as if the cloud above him has lifted a little. I think it’s partly thanks to getting him involved with all of this nonsense, and also…” Gilbert hesitated, and then he admitted, “renewing his friendship with you.”

A corner of Joseph’s mouth quirked up. “You agreed to my help for his sake, didn’t you? Because when I was egging you on at the Red Lion I swore at one point you were going to tell me to fuck off, but you didn’t.”

“Yes.”

Joseph’s smile widened. “And you came along to the show to make sure he would, knowing he would want to come backstage.”

“Yes, damn your eyes,” Gilbert said. 

“You’re a good friend, Gilbert, even when you don’t want to be,” Joseph said, and with a swiftness Gilbert didn’t expect, Joseph leaned close and brushed his mouth against Gilbert’s. 

Before Gilbert could react, Joseph stepped away, walking over to the sofa to pick up his coat. 

“As it happens, we don’t have a show at all next weekend,” Joseph said, as if nothing had happened, “so that would be the best time for me and Goran to be away from London.”

It took Gilbert a few seconds to find his voice. “You’ll be ready by then?”

“Yeah, it’s a fairly easy routine, and the setup is easy as well,” Joseph said. He walked over to Gilbert’s desk and scribbled on a spare slip of paper. “Goran and I have rooms in Soho, here’s the address. Drop me a note, and perhaps we can meet for a meal this week to convince Henry, and finalize our plans.” Joseph headed for the door, and before he left he paused, his gaze dropping to Gilbert’s mouth. “Always a pleasure, Gilbert.”

Gilbert stood motionless at the cabinet, listening to the stair treads creak as Joseph headed downstairs. Bits of conversation floated up the stairwell.

“Mister Clarke, I’m glad to see you in good health.”

“You as well, Master Joseph! Didn’t think old Clarkey would remember you, now did you? You’ve done well for yourself, lad.”

“Thank you, Mister Clarke. I’ll be sure to give Gilbert a ticket for you to come see our show.”

“Why, thank you, Master Joseph! I look forward to it.”

Gilbert sighed as he shut the study door. He was probably going to have to see the show again, with his butler, because he doubted the old man would be able to go by himself.

“Damn your eyes,” he muttered as he drained his glass.

_Damn your mouth._


	10. Chapter 10

It took a bit of convincing, a bit of Sunday dinner at the Red Lion, and quite a bit of alcohol to get Henry to agree to host a weekend at his estate. 

“I don’t know,” Henry said, as he slowly rotated his wineglass on the polished wood table, “I’ve not had company at the Hall—except for Gilbert, who’s not really company—since Karenna died.” He pushed his empty plate to the table’s edge.

“All the more reason to, Henry,” Gilbert said. “It’s been over two years. It’s perfectly all right to still grieve for her, but I know Karenna would not be happy to see you living like this.”

Joseph caught Gilbert’s glance, and he gave a tiny nod to the unspoken agreement that passed between them. He refilled Henry’s glass. “You’re still alive, mate, time to start act acting that way.”

Henry eyed them with a narrowed gaze. “You’re ganging up on me,” he said. “Both of you.” 

“Your powers of observation are amazing,” Gilbert said.

Joseph poked Henry’s arm. “Look, you should be happy that Gilbert and I are agreeing on something.”

“You’re both horrid.”

“Ah, well, that’s not the worst thing I’ve been called,” Joseph said with a chuckle. “Look, Henry, aside from the fact that it would do you a world of good to get your house full of people, Gilbert tells me your ballroom is almost twice the size of his aunt’s.”

“Well, I would think it’s larger,” Henry said, as he drank some more wine. “I could fit her entire London home into my east wing at Hakken Hall.” 

“There you go,” Joseph said. “Perfect for our needs.”

Henry gazed morosely at his almost-empty glass. “But there will be all those _women_ there, flirting with me, all wanting to be the next Countess of Choughton.”

It was Gilbert’s turn to fill Henry’s glass. “Henry, you have to admit, you make fantastic bait to lure all of Aunt Constance’s circle to come see Joseph debunk Doctor Lee.”

“Well, yes.”

“And nobody’s saying you have to marry any of these girls, just be charming and nice to them.”

Henry pointed a decidedly unsteady finger at Gilbert. “If I have to be charming and nice to the ladies, so do you. The fact that you prefer men is not an excuse.”

The look on Gilbert’s face almost made Joseph choke on his mouthful of wine.

Gilbert turned a baleful expression on Joseph. “Perhaps we should include Joseph in that directive, too,” he said. “He has a modest fortune now, and when we were in sixth form we learned that he likes women well enough.”

“I won’t deny it,” Joseph replied, keeping his gaze on Gilbert, “I like pretty things.” The prettiest of them all sat across from him now; his mouth thinned to a grim line, nostrils flared, with splashes of pink on his high cheekbones. Joseph savored the heat that sparked in his groin at the sight.

“All right, then,” Henry said, ignoring both of them, “we _all_ have to be charming and nice.”

Joseph touched his glass. “All right, mate, I can do that just fine.” 

“And no-one has to marry anyone.”

“Amen to that,” Gilbert said, and he touched Henry’s glass.

Henry drained his glass, and then he took each of their hands in his. “I can’t tell you how much it pleases me that we are all friends again,” he said, with the extreme seriousness of the truly drunk.

Joseph’s chest shook with silent laughter at the way Henry squeezed Gilbert’s hand to forestall any denial.

“I think Gilbert needs to get you home,” Joseph said, rising from the table. “Goran and I will come down Friday evening, after our matinee show. Here’s a list of what we’ll need.” He handed a folded note to Gilbert, and then continued, “We’ll set up Saturday morning, and then start our presentation after dinner, say seven? If your company arrives on Saturday around three, Henry, that should limit your exposure to the little money-grubbers.”

“I still have to deal with them on Sunday,” Henry said.

Gilbert helped Henry to his feet. “It’ll be fine,” he said. “Most people will leave after luncheon.”

“You both have to stay until they’re all gone.”

Joseph laughed, and then he helped Gilbert get Henry downstairs and into their carriage. 

The week was a busy one; he and Goran had a full schedule of shows, and during their down time the two men worked out the details for the upcoming weekend.

“It won’t take us too long to set up at all, especially with the glass and mirrors being there already,” Goran said, eyeing a drawing Gilbert had provided of Henry’s ballroom. They had set up a small model on the table in their shared sitting room, and Goran now placed pieces of cardboard in several places on the model. “Here’s where I’d put the the glass panels.” He looked up at Joseph. “I do feel a bit strange that we’re not bringing our own glass and curtains.”

Joseph adjusted the angle of one of the pieces. “It’s a better move all around, mate; we don’t have to worry about carting anything around—or worse, breaking something on those bumpy country roads.”

“Oh yeah, didn’t think about that,” Goran said. “This will be the first time I’ve ever been to a fancy house in the country. Were you ever at Henry’s house, Joe?”

“Once,” Joseph said, “when Henry’s parents passed away, Sir Corman brought me and Gilbert to Hakken Hall for the funeral. We were thirteen, and it was our first year of being friends. After that, Sir Corman always had both me and Henry with him and Gilbert during the holidays—London in the winter, and River’s End in the summer.”

“Gilbert’s da sounds like he was a nice fellow,” Goran said.

“He was the best, mate,” Joseph said.

“Gilbert’s nice, too,” Goran added. “He just don’t want anyone to know.”

Joseph laughed. “How is it that you can see how people are so quickly? You’ve only known him a few weeks, but you’re bang on.”

“Gypsy magic,” Goran said, and he wiggled his fingers.

The rest of the week slipped by, and so did any opportunity to return to Lee’s warehouse, which Joseph found extremely frustrating. He and Goran finished their matinee show on Friday afternoon, and while he and Goran stowed their bags in the boot of one of Henry’s carriages, Joseph made a decision.

“I want us to swing by Thrawl Street before we head out,” he said. “I want to get a look inside that warehouse of Lee’s.”

Goran glanced at him. “That’s not exactly on our way, mate. It can’t wait until next week?”

“I want to see what’s there, so we can tell all those toffs about how Lee has cheated them.” Joseph hoisted the last case into the carriage’s boot. “We have plenty of time, and plenty of light.”

Goran shrugged, although a small frown creased his brow. “All right,” he said, “but we don’t go there empty-handed.” He pointed at the gleaming black carriage. “And we’d better muss this up a bit.”

Joseph was grateful for Goran’s common sense an hour later, as they drove the now-muddied carriage along Commercial Street. They were eyed more than once, but more as a nuisance than a target, although Joseph was glad that the carriage’s boot had a lock, and that they both carried knives, just in case.

The building looked smaller in the stark afternoon light, the faded blue paint incongruously bright against the dingy red brick. He guided the carriage just around a bend in the road, and he left Goran there to keep watch while he jogged back down the narrow street.

_Good thing I’m not dressed nice,_ Joseph thought. The street appeared empty, but he knew appearances could be deceiving.

His goal was one of the windows, a little higher up on one side, above a mess of discarded crates. One of the painted panes was broken, and when Joseph carefully climbed to the top of the heap and hauled himself up to the small, arched window, he had a clear view of the building’s interior. He smiled in grim triumph when he saw the backs of the framed panels, their coverings removed to reveal panes of glass. Hanging nearby was an apparatus of hinged metal and leather straps that Joseph knew was used in many sleight-of-hand tricks; he had a similar one packed in the carriage.

He saw movement in the rear of the building, and Joseph’s pulse raced when he saw Lee and Naka standing by a tall cabinet that was supported on a pair of sawhorses. The cabinet had a single door with a round hole in the middle, and Joseph watched while Lee bound Naka’s hands and pushed him inside the cabinet.

They were trying to do a spirit cabinet, Joseph realized. The trick was all the rage among the spiritualists in London, where one or both mediums would be bound and locked in the cabinet, yet still be able to perform ‘ghostly manifestations’. Joseph knew of a few variations on the routine, but they all required the ability to escape those bonds quickly and quietly.

Naka didn’t appear to be able to do that—or do it quickly enough for Lee, judging from the way that Lee pounded on the cabinet, and unleashed a stream of angry Chinese at his son. 

Joseph’s heart pounded while he watched Lee drag his still-bound son from the cabinet.

_I’m sorry_

Naka tried to move away, but having his wrists bound unbalanced him, and he fell to the dirt floor.

_I’m sorry, mum, I won’t do it again, whatever it was I did_

Lee grabbed his cane and raised it above his head—

_Please, mum, don’t_

—and Joseph’s world went red, red as the rage in his heart, and red as the blood on his hand as he broke the rest of the window and went inside.


	11. Chapter 11

“Shouldn’t Joseph and Goran have been here by now?” Henry glanced at the massive cloisonne clock on the mantel of the drawing room’s fireplace for at least the tenth time in the past hour. “It’s nearly eight.”

Gilbert looked up from his newspaper. “It’s a bit late,” he said, “but not outside the realm of possibility. They had a matinee performance today, remember? They might not have gotten away immediately, and it’s a good three hours to get here. I was figuring seven, myself.”

“But seven was an hour ago.”

Gilbert rolled his eyes. “Henry, stop—”

“Lord Choughton, I’m sorry to interrupt,” Henry’s butler said as he hurried into the room, “but you are needed out front. Your friends have arrived, but one of them is injured.” He turned toward Gilbert. “Doctor Sansom, we’ll need your assistance, please.”

Gilbert vaulted out of his seat and followed Henry and the butler outside, where they found Goran pacing in front of their borrowed carriage. 

“What happened?” Gilbert asked. Not waiting for Goran to answer, he yanked open the door, where he found Joseph sprawled on one bench, bloodied and clutching his left arm. 

“I had to do something,” Joseph said through gritted teeth, “and you need to see to Naka first.”

“Naka?”

Joseph’s chin jerked toward the opposite bench, and when Gilbert turned his head he saw the young man slumped on the bench, unconscious.

“Bloody hell,” Gilbert muttered. “Can you walk?” At Joseph’s nod he called, “Goran!”

Goran appeared at the carriage’s other door. “What do you need me to do?”

“You help take Naka inside, and stay with him, keep him calm if he wakes up. Henry,” Gilbert looked back where his friend stood in the driveway, “where is the room you had readied for Joseph?”

“Down the hall from your suite, in the west wing,” Henry replied, his eyes wide with alarm. “I have you all there.”

“Put Naka in one of the rooms near ours. Let’s get this idiot to his room, and then I’ll get my bag and examine both of them. Barton,” he said to the butler, “I’ll need water and washrags brought to each room, as quickly as possible.”

“Yes, sir.” The butler called over several footmen, and he sent one off in search of the housekeeper while the others helped get Naka and Joseph out of the carriage.

“Get a constable,” Joseph gasped as two footmen helped him from the carriage. “I want them to see what that bastard’s been doing to his son.”

Gilbert managed to keep the chaos to a minimum, although there were a few times he felt like he was back at hospital, barking orders to the nurses and assistants. Henry’s footmen rose to the occasion, though, and they whisked the two injured men into the house. When Gilbert went back inside, he nodded with approval when he saw maids hurrying behind the footmen, laden with towels, basins, and some of the other things he’d asked for.

It didn’t take Gilbert long to fetch his bag from his room; he was grateful that his tutor had impressed upon him that no surgeon was ever without his bag, and this incident proved that the advice was sound. When he entered Naka’s room, he found his patient awake, and bewildered. It took a bit of coaxing to get Naka to remove his tunic, and Gilbert frowned at the bruises and lacerations that were revealed.

“How long has your father been doing this, Naka?” Gilbert probed the injuries as gently as he could.

“Since we came to England,” Naka replied. “Before, too, but not as often.” He looked up at Gilbert, his eyes wide. “Do I have to go back?”

Gilbert shook his head. “No, and you’re safe here.”

“Where will I go?”

Gilbert didn’t have an answer for that. “Let’s worry about that later,” he said.

“Your friend, he was hurt trying to help me.”

“I’ll be taking care of him soon, I wanted to see the extent of your injuries first.” It looked like while he had been badly beaten, Naka had no serious injuries. Gilbert hadn’t liked the way that Joseph had been holding his arm, so he decided he would leave Naka to Henry and Goran. “Lord Choughton will be here shortly, and he and Goran will help get you cleaned up and comfortable. I’ll check in on you later.”

Naka looked at Gilbert, then at Goran. “Gor-don?”

Goran patted his arm. “Don’t worry, I’ll explain.”

By the time Gilbert reached Joseph’s room he found his second patient dressed in a borrowed pair of Henry’s pyjamas, propped up against a sea of pillows in a large poster bed. He noted with approval that Joseph’s arm was immersed in a small wash basin filled with iced water.

“Excellent job, Henry,” he said as he peered at the afflicted arm, “the swelling is just a fraction of what it was when we found him. You have everything else ready?”

“Yes,” Henry replied, and he gestured at a nearby table. “There is another basin, some towels, and a pair of silk socks. Oh, and the glass of wine you requested.”

“What are the socks for?” Joseph asked. “I hurt my arm, not my leg.”

“I”ll answer that in a moment,” Gilbert said. He set his bag on the table, opened it, and fished out a bottle of clear liquid and a small packet of linen. He handed the items to Henry. “I took a quick look at Naka, and he doesn’t any stitching. I need you and Goran to get him bathed, and then you can apply this carbolic acid to the lacerations on his back, it will help prevent infection.” He took out another bottle, and after opening it he used an eyedropper to extract some of the dark liquid within, and then he carefully squeezed five drops into the wineglass. He closed the bottle back up and gave it to Henry. “When you’re done, make Naka some hot, sweet tea, and put no more than eight drops of this in the tea.”

“Laudanum, Gilbert?” Henry asked, eyeing the bottle with distaste.

“Yes, but it’s a relatively low dose, and it will relieve his pain and help him sleep. I’ll come and check on him after I’ve taken care of Joseph’s arm.” After Henry left, Gilbert stirred the wine with a finger, and then he handed the glass to Joseph. “Here, drink up.”

“Won’t hear me complaining about laudanum,” Joseph said, and he took several generous swallows of wine. “But how’s it that the kid gets eight drops and I only get five? I’m twice his size, almost—Goran’s even taller than he is, and that’s saying something.”

“Five drops will take the edge off your pain,” Gilbert said, “but will allow you to keep your wits about you.” He lifted Joseph’s arm out of the water and set the basin on the table, and then he took a towel and sat on the edge of the bed as he carefully dried the damp, chilled skin. He gently examined the bruised area, watching Joseph’s reactions. “The sock is for your arm,” he said. “It will protect your skin from the plaster cast.”

“Plaster cast?”

“Your forearm has a fracture,” Gilbert told him. “I’m assuming that you blocked Lee’s blows with your arm?”

Joseph frowned. “Yeah. Bastard had a pretty solid cane. But what do you know, it’s the first time I’ll be wearing silk socks, and it’ll be on my arm, under a cast.” Joseph drained the glass. “Shit, Henry has got some bloody good wine.”

“That he does. He also has some truly amazing brandy,” Gilbert said, and he took the empty glass and set it on the table along with the damp towel. He cast a critical eye at his patient while he rolled up his shirt sleeves. “I’m afraid Henry was too zealous in dressing you; we should take that pyjama shirt off you before I start applying the plaster.”

Joseph chuckled. “You can admit it, you just want to get me naked.”

Gilbert rolled his eyes, although he could feel the heat in his cheeks as he undid the mother-of-pearl buttons of the shirt. He could also feel Joseph’s gaze on him while he eased the garment off. _What are you, sixteen again?_ he chided himself. _Keep your mind on the task at hand._ He tried not to take a perverse pleasure in Joseph’s grunts of discomfort as he slid the sock onto the injured arm and settled it onto an extra pillow. After he poured some water in the other basin and prepared the plastered strips of linen, he brought it over to the bed and sat down again.

“You are an idiot,” he muttered as he carefully wound the dampened strips around Joseph’s wrist and forearm. “What possessed you to go back there and interfere like that? You’re lucky you weren’t more seriously injured—or even killed.”

“I couldn’t help it,” Joseph replied, his gaze on Gilbert’s hands. “We went there to look at his props, and everything was there, just like I thought it would be. But that poor kid—Lee was _beating_ him, Gilbert, really laying into him, and all because Naka couldn’t do a trick fast enough for him. A stupid trick.” He was quiet for a moment, watching Gilbert’s hands. “My stepmother used to beat me when I was younger, after my dad died.”

Gilbert’s head jerked up at the admission. “You never told us that.”

Joseph lifted his uninjured shoulder in a shrug. “Not the sort of thing you share with your mates, is it? She’d beat the shit out of me, and half the time I wouldn’t even know why. I think your old man had a suspicion, that time he visited the penny school I attended, because he kept looking at my neck—I didn’t know then that bruises from choking took awhile to show up, so I hadn’t buttoned up my collar that morning. He asked me if I would mind staying away from home, and I said, ‘Oh no, sir, I wouldn’t mind it one bit!’ I couldn’t get the words out fast enough. Next thing I knew, I was told I was chosen to be a charity student at Charterhouse, and that I was Sir Corman’s ward.”

Gilbert recalled the times at school when Joseph would come to the defense of a bullied first-year. He wondered if his father’s act of compassion all those years ago had engendered in Joseph the need to do the same, to repay the debt. “Well, that explains a lot,” he said. “You were always rescuing people when we were at school. And, according to Henry, you spent a good bit of time defending my virtue.” He looked up and found Joseph grinning at him.

“Wasn’t anyone going to touch that arse but me,” Joseph said, and then his expression sobered. “When I saw Lee beating his kid, I saw my step-mum beating me, and I thought, ‘I need to be like Gilbert’s dad, and get him the hell out of there.’ ‘Course, I didn’t do it as well as he did.”

“No,” Gilbert commented, returning his attention to his work, “I don’t recall _him_ coming home with a fractured arm. But if you felt that way about my father, why did you try so hard to destroy every good thing he did for you all those years ago?”

Joseph stared at the carved ceiling for a few moments, and then he replied, “My head was in a strange place when we started sixth form. The masters talked of nothing but exams, and what universities we should apply for, and I knew I wouldn’t be going to university—most of the other charity students hadn’t even continued on to sixth. And you and I… we’d had that amazing thing between us over the holiday, but then we were back in school and we couldn’t touch each other hardly at all, because we couldn’t let anyone suspect we’d spent the summer fucking almost every night.”

Gilbert remembered his own frustration with the situation. Privacy was practically non-existent at school, and their intimacy had been reduced to quick snogs and trying to get each other off before the other students would think they’d been gone too long.

“So I was already feeling a bit out of step, and then Banright decided he would set me straight about our place in the world,” Joseph said. “He said our sponsors didn’t give two shits about us, they’d just done their charitable duty and ponied up the tuition. Janning was _his_ sponsor, and outright told him as much. Banright said to me, ‘We don’t belong here, Shackleton. We’re here on a rich man’s whim, and even if we graduated at the top of the class, we’re still from the East End and no decent employer will touch us. So fuck these rich men and their rich sons, and let’s take them for everything we can before the party’s over.’” He rubbed the back of his head with his good hand and and then continued, “He told me that you and Henry only associated with me because your father had asked you to, out of pity, and that I would never see either of you once we’d graduated.”

“And you believed that piece of shit.” 

“I didn’t know what to believe then,” Joseph said, “but he made sense. Henry was going to Oxford, and he’s an _earl,_ he’s not supposed to be friends with the likes of me. And you…you were going to be a doctor, and how were we going to make anything work between us?”

“It might not have worked out,” Gilbert said as he started on a second layer. “Hell, it probably wouldn’t have. But we’ll never know, will we, because you believed his lies and cut Henry and me out of your life. And your delinquencies with Banright almost tarred us with the same dirty brush.”

“I know, and I did apologize for all that nonsense. It was all in those letters I sent you. The ones you never read.”

In spite of himself, a corner of Gilbert’s mouth quirked up. “Touché.”

The rest of the time spent finishing the cast was spent in an almost companionable silence, which Gilbert was grateful for. He’d spent years being angry at a foolish sixteen-year-old boy, and he realized that he’d been foolish too, in not seeing and understanding what Joseph had been going through. Gilbert found he could no longer hold on to the anger, and it left him wondering how he was going to deal with the grown man in front of him.

He dipped his hand in the water, and gave the cast a final smoothing-over. “This will harden in about an hour, and will be fully cured by morning,” he said. “Keep it still for the next hour while it dries. I’m going to see how Naka’s doing and then go clean up. I’ll check on you before I retire for bed.” 

“Gilbert.”

Gilbert looked up and met Joseph’s serious gaze. 

“Are we square, you and me?

“Yes,” Gilbert said, and he returned to his task.

“What, that’s it?” Joseph’s tone was teasing, but it also held a note of exasperation.

Before he could stop himself, Gilbert snaked a plaster-covered hand behind Joseph’s neck, pulling him forward to take his mouth in a rough kiss.

“Aw yeah,” Joseph murmured against his lips, and he slid his good hand up into Gilbert’s hair, keeping their faces close. “Your mouth tastes as good as it did all those years ago. Like nectar.” They kissed again, rough and hungry, their tongues tangling and thrusting until they finally had to pull apart for air.

“We’re square,” Gilbert said. He gathered the basin and took it over to the table, taking a few calming breaths while he put his tools back in his bag, aware of Joseph’s hungry gaze on his back. His composure recovered, Gilbert took hold of his bag and turned to face Joseph. “Keep the arm as still as you can,” he said, and as he walked toward the door he was amazed at how normal his voice sounded. “I’ll check on you later.”

He closed the door, and went to Naka’s room. The young man was sleeping peacefully, despite the snores that came from Goran, who was sprawled, also sleeping, in a nearby chair. Gilbert checked his pulse and his breathing, and looked over the cuts that Henry had treated with the carbolic acid. Everything looked fine.

Back in his room, Gilbert poured some fresh water in a basin and washed the plaster from his hands, and then he removed his waistcoat and neckwear. His fingers moved to unbutton his shirt, but then he thought better of it; after the kiss they’d shared, it would be foolish to go to Joseph’s room in any sort of state of undress.

He made his way back to Joseph’s room, and quietly opened the door. Joseph was sleeping, his arm still propped on the pillow. He looked younger in sleep, and Gilbert was reminded of the boy who had once kissed him way up high in an apple tree. He couldn’t help a small smirk when he noticed the plaster-dust handprint on Joseph’s neck.

_What a night,_ Gilbert thought as he shut the door and walked back to his room. _And the weekend hasn’t even started yet._


	12. Chapter 12

“I’ll be fine,” Joseph insisted the next morning, as the four men stood in the cavernous ballroom. Thanks to Henry’s small army of servants, dozens of chairs were arranged in rows facing a large oak table, two large sheets of glass were carefully set into position, and floor-to ceiling curtains hung from the windows, although for now they had been pulled back, allowing the sunlight to stream through the columns of tall, leaded panes. “I can do it.”

“You’re wearing a sling,” Gilbert pointed out. “How can you perform sleight-of-hand with only one hand?”

Goran, who was sitting cross-legged on the table, chuckled. “He’s got you there, mate.”

Joseph shot him a rude gesture with his injured hand. “I can do _this,_ mate.”

Goran was unfazed. “Weren’t me who was all stupid and got his arm broke playing the hero.”

Joseph locked gazes with his partner and friend. “Tell me you wouldn’t have done the same.”

Goran stared back, his expression serious, just long enough to make Joseph wonder about his response. Then he nodded and said, “I would have. But we’re a team, remember? Ain’t no Shackleton and Stone if Shackleton goes and gets himself killed.” 

With a pang of shame, Joseph had to admit that Goran was right. If he’d been killed or crippled, there would be no sold-out shows in Piccadilly, no nice apartment in Soho, and Goran would have had to scramble to find a new way to make a living. While his motivation had been noble, his actions had been selfish and short-sighted. “You’re right,” he said, “and I’m sorry.”

Goran’s grin told him that all was forgiven. “Joe can do the routine,” Goran said, hopping off the table. “He don’t need his arm for the ghost bits.” 

“But he does for the ‘surgery,’” Henry said. 

“Let Goran do that part,” Gilbert suggested.

Joseph shook his head. “That trick works because of an apparatus.” He walked over to one of the cases, opened it, and removed a contraption made of a series of connected metal strips, rods, and hinges. “This gets strapped onto my shoulders and arms, under my shirt,” he said as he laid it on the table, “and it lets me store items above each wrist. Remember how Lee was shifting his shoulders? He had on one of these. Problem is, it was made for me to wear, since I’m better at those kinds of tricks. It’s too big for Goran.”

Henry and Gilbert looked over to Goran for confirmation.

“He’s right,” Goran said. He shrugged on the apparatus, slipping his arms into the straps and settling the main bar across his shoulders. Once he had it into place, it was obvious that it wouldn’t work properly; the ends extended a good five inches beyond his wrists.

“Look, it’ll be fine,” Joseph said. “My arm doesn’t hurt all that much, thanks to our good doctor,” he bowed in Gilbert’s direction, “and I’ll keep it in the sling until that part. I’ll just need to demonstrate the hand maneuvers that make it look like I’m digging inside Gilbert’s body.”

It was almost comical, the speed at which Gilbert’s head swiveled towards him. “ _My_ body?” he said, his brows drawing together in a frown.

“Well, we need a patient,” Joseph said, “and it needs to be a man, so we don’t scandalize the ladies. Besides, you’re the one who’s debunking Lee as a false surgeon—Goran and I are just the help. Consultants, if you will.”

“Ooh, I like that,” Goran said. “Shackleton and Stone, Consulting Magicians.”

The arrival of the local constabulary took up the rest of the morning. Joseph found it a novel experience to be on the proper side of police questioning, and he told the constable at length about the abuses he had witnessed both at the warehouse and in the mews behind Lady Tillsworth’s house, agreeing to sign statements before the magistrate if needed. The man then met with Gilbert, who took him up to examine Naka.

“Well, that was an unexpected addition to our morning,” Henry said later, after the constable had been thanked and escorted outside, “although I think you were smart to have us bring him so quickly. There’s no doubt that boy has been badly beaten, and you witnessed it twice.” He turned and gazed up at the stairwell for a few moments. “Perhaps I should make Naka my ward, at least for now.”

“That would be a kindness, if you’re willing to do it,” Gilbert said. “He seems to be a well-mannered young man, and he definitely did not wish to be returned to Lee’s custody.”

Joseph remembered his own desperation to get out of his step-mother’s house. “He’s at a funny age; he’s still young enough to have a few years at school, but too young to have to fend for himself—especially being a foreigner. Do it, Henry.”

They were interrupted by the butler’s announcement of luncheon, and after they finished eating Henry’s valet came to prepare him for the onslaught of guests that were to shortly arrive. 

The next few hours were filled with introductions, small talk, and everyone being charming as Hakken Hall was transformed into a bustling center of activity. Joseph and Goran followed along as Henry led the guests on a tour of the estate, taking them through a seemingly unending number of great rooms and halls until they ended up in the back of the manor, in the immaculately maintained gardens where everyone was served afternoon tea.

“Crikey, Joe,” Goran whispered as he clutched a dainty teacup made of delicate bone china, “your friend is filthy rich. I’ve seen towns smaller than this place.”

“Right?” Joe said as he sipped his tea. “Imagine coming here at thirteen and being afraid to touch anything.”

“I’m twenty and I’m afraid to touch anything,” Goran said. “It’s really just him here?”

“Him and the servants.”

“Cor blimey,” Goran said, and he tilted his head back, trying to take in all of the massive mansion. “That’s a bit sad.”

“Yeah,” Joseph said. “But today is a good step towards changing that.”

Goran nodded. “He’s starting to come back to himself.”

Joseph paused mid-sip. “How would you know something like that?”

Goran smiled and wiggled his fingers.

Later that evening, as they sat at the longest table Joseph had ever seen, he decided that dinner at Hakken Hall would go down as one of the more memorable experiences of his life. The thought of Henry accommodating over fifty guests had been mind-boggling on its own, but to sit down with all those people, at _one_ table, was truly amazing. Joseph felt a bit dazed as he sat in his carved chair and had course after course set before him on delicately painted, gold-edge plates. The footmen moved like a well-oiled machine, filling glasses, offering platters of various succulent meats, and making sure no one went without, all while being virtually invisible. Stating reasons of etiquette, Henry had separated them, and Joseph looked across a sea of pristine white linen, flowers, and candles to see how his friends were faring.

No need to worry about Goran; his partner was chatting happily with his seat-mates, and even more happily stuffing his face with everything that was set before him. 

Gilbert looked decidedly uncomfortable in his evening clothes, appearing to speak only when spoken to, and giving more of his attention to his wineglass than his meal or the people around him.

The real surprise was Henry, who commanded the head of the table like a benevolent ruler, conversing and chatting and acting as if he always had four-odd dozen people over for Saturday dinner.

Lady Bosford’s tiara twinkled in the lamplight as she surveyed them all from behind her lacquered fan, and when her gaze met Joseph’s she winked at him.

When the last plate was cleared away Henry rose from his chair. “Well, I hope everyone has enjoyed their meal this evening! I would like to invite you to join Doctor Sansom and me in the drawing room for some sherry, while Messrs Shackleton and Stone prepare for this evening’s entertainment. Mister Barton,” he said to the butler, “Please convey my compliments and thanks to the staff; they have done a splendid job of caring for my guests.”

Joseph and Goran made their escape while the guests headed toward the drawing room.

“I never ate so much in my life,” Goran said as they entered the ballroom, “And that’s saying something. That food was amazing. You think Henry would make _me_ his ward?”

Ducking into a screened-off corner of the room, they changed into their stage clothes, and then Joseph removed his sling and let Goran help him put on the apparatus. “Put it over the shirt for tonight. You have the extra blood casing under the table?” he asked while Goran fastened the straps around his shoulders, biceps, and wrists.

“Yeah,” Goran said, “and the chicken liver, too. I figured you can start with the chicken heart.” He nodded toward the small dish that sat on the table.

“Good,” Joseph said, and then he watched Goran attach the blood-filled casing to one side, and the heart to the other.

“How’s your arm?” Goran asked, as he stood back and surveyed his handiwork.

“It aches a bit, but not too bad,” Joseph said. “Gilbert did a good job with it.”

Goran helped him on with his dress coat. “You know, mate, we’re going to have to switch some things up until your broken wing’s healed. No Indian Rope, for one thing.”

“Yeah,” Joseph said. “I’ll have to ask Gilbert how long I’ll be like this.” He moved his shoulders up and down, testing the apparatus one last time, and then Goran put the sling back on. “All right, I’m good. Let’s double-check the glass, light the candles, and then I think we can call it showtime.”


	13. Chapter 13

“My name is Gilbert Sansom, and I’d like to thank everyone for coming here today,” Gilbert said as he stood in the ballroom and addressed the assembled guests. “I also owe a debt of gratitude to my aunt, Lady Bosford, for contacting you all, and to Lord Choughton for extending us his gracious hospitality.” 

He waited for the smattering of applause to end, and then he waved his hand, gesturing at the large table to his left, the smaller table beyond, and the props that sat on them both. “I’m sure this setup looks very familiar to you all. A little over a fortnight ago, Lord Choughton and I, accompanied by my aunt, attended one of Doctor Lee’s sessions. We saw seemingly miraculous things—paper slips levitating, ghosts appearing out of thin air, and of especial interest to me, a surgery that occurred without a single incision.”

A murmur arose, and many of the guests nodded in agreement.

“I’m sure my aunt has acquainted you at some point with the fact that I am a doctor,” Gilbert continued. “I trained at the University of Edinburgh, pursuing medical studies that have allowed me to practice as both a physician and a surgeon.“

“Yes, I told them _all_ about you, darling,” Lady Bosford called from the side. The ladies tittered at her comment.

Joseph watched faint splashes of pink appear on Gilbert’s cheeks. _I almost feel sorry for him,_ he thought. _But he looks lovely when he blushes._

“Being a man of science,” Gilbert said, ignoring his aunt, “I was naturally skeptical about what I had seen, but I was at a loss to explain how these things could have happened. I would like to introduce you to someone who can not only explain it, but can _copy_ it as well. Ladies and gentlemen, Mister Joseph Shackleton.”

Amidst polite applause, Joseph walked to the front of the table, and when he had the room’s full attention, he smiled and bowed. “It’s a pleasure to meet you all today. In case you didn’t know, I am but half of a duo—over there is my parter Goran Stone, and together you might know us as ‘Shackleton and Stone.’ Some of you may have seen us perform at the Egyptian Hall in Piccadilly, where we do our best to entertain and amuse with magical illusions.”

Goran bowed with a flourish. 

Excited murmurs and applause arose from the audience, which relieved Joseph considerably; he had secretly dreaded the possibility that none of them had heard of him, and were only there for a weekend at Hakken Hall. “Goran and I attended one of Doctor Lee’s sessions last week, at Doctor Sansom’s request, and I was amazed at what I saw.” Joseph said. “But it wasn’t the flying papers, or the ghosts, or even the surgery that surprised me. It was the fact that I recognized _every single one_ of those phenomena as a trick. A magic trick.”

He had them now; every eye in the room was on him.

“Tonight, Mister Stone and I are going to show you those tricks, and show you just how we did them. Why? Because, ladies and gentlemen, you were lied to. What you really saw was a magic show, but the magician tried to pretend that it was real.” He waved to Henry. “Lord Choughton, could we lower the lights now? About half, please, I want everyone to be able to see what’s going on.”

Henry gestured to his butler, and the room darkened as the gas-lit ceiling lamps were turned down. Joseph turned to Goran. “Bring me the bowl,” he intoned, just like Lee had said to Naka. Goran carried it over, and signaled with his eyes where the wires were. Joseph made gestures over and under the bowl, and on his way back up he caught a knot in one of the wires between his fingers. As he lifted his hand, the paper rose in the air.

People gasped, and Joseph grinned. “Just like what you saw, right?” He kept the slip of paper in his hand and nodded to Goran, who lifted another wired slip out of the bowl and handed it to the closest audience member. “Young lady,” Joseph said, “there’s a very thin wire attached to that paper, can you feel it?” When she nodded, wide-eyed, he continued, “Go ahead and hold it up.”

She complied, and dozens of people exclaimed as her paper rose in the air. Joseph encouraged her to wiggle it about and make it dance, and she giggled as she did so.

“Would you be so kind as to pass it along to your neighbor?” Joseph asked. “Please, everyone, go ahead and examine it.” He unfolded the slip in his hand and read, “Theresa Pennington.” He smiled when there was an excited squeak over to the left. “Miss Pennington, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. We’re going to find a ghost for you.” 

He walked over to where the blushing young woman sat, and bowed to her. “My goodness, there _is_ a ghost right over here!” he exclaimed, and there was another commotion when a pale, flickering apparition appeared next to where Joseph stood.

Joseph cupped an ear and pretended to listen. “This ghost claims that they own the ring you found at a recent party.”

Miss Pennington squeaked again. “But how could it know that?”

Joseph smiled. “I’ll answer that in a moment. But first, ladies and gentlemen, I would like you all to look over at poor Mister Stone, who has been completely ignored while I was chatting with this lovely lady.”

Goran pouted as he stood by the smaller table.

“Do you see that tall block of brass on the table? I apologize, I wasn’t able to procure an obelisk in time, so this had to do. While you all were looking at me and the beautiful Miss Pennington here, Mister Stone turned that lovely, shiny piece of brass just enough to catch a reflection off some plate glass that we set up off to the side. Before I show you the glass, watch the ‘ghost’ and let me show you what happens when Mister Stone turns the block back.”

The apparition disappeared and reappeared as Goran moved the block so that the polished side reflected the carefully positioned candlelight over to where Joseph stood. Joseph walked over a few feet to the side, and rapped on the glass that he and Goran had set in place that morning. A burst of excited chatter followed his action, as the ‘ghost’ shook with each rap.

“I think if you cast your memories back,” Joseph said, “you’ll recall that the ghosts only appeared on the sides of the room. Mister Stone, show us the other ghost.”

Goran swiveled the block around to face the opposite side, where Gilbert stood, and an apparition appeared next to him. 

“Doctor Sansom, could you please give a knock?” Joseph asked.

Gilbert turned and rapped on the glass panel that was positioned behind him. The second ‘ghost’ shook.

The guests applauded, and when they quieted Joseph said, “When we are finished I welcome you all to examine the room—unlike Doctor Lee, who hurried everyone out under the guise of needing to ‘purify the room.’ What he needed to purify it of was all his props and equipment.” There was laughter at his saucy remark, and when it died down Joseph turned to the young lady and said, “My dear Miss Pennington, we learned about your lucky find the old-fashioned way; we eavesdropped.”

More chuckles.

“Did you all notice that Naka stayed in the parlor the whole time before the session? That young man was listening to your conversations, and if something sounded worthwhile he would fold your paper slip. Thank you, Miss Pennington, for your assistance.” Joseph bowed, and then he took her hand and kissed it, while the guests applauded once more. “I believe we have that other slip of paper in the audience, who has it, please?”

An older gentleman raised his hand. “I do, young man.”

“Could you read the name on it? They will be my patient this evening.”

The man unfolded the paper and read, “Gilbert Sansom.”

An excited murmur swept through the room.

“Wait a minute,” Gilbert said, “I didn’t write my name down!”

“No,” Joseph replied, “I did.”

The guests laughed at Gilbert’s indignation.

“Please step over to the operating table, Doctor Sansom,” Joseph said, waving a hand at the large oak table in front of the audience. “Doctor Sansom is a lucky man, for I will be operating on him twice—and the second time you will all learn the secret. Do please remove your coat and waistcoat.” He bit his lip to keep his expression neutral as Gilbert glowered at him and complied, handing his garments to Goran. Joseph turned to the guests. “I fear I will need to be a bit scandalous this evening and ask Doctor Sansom to also remove his shirt; I don’t wish for there to appear to be any way that I can hide something upon his person.”

Several young ladies giggled before their mothers shushed them, and Joseph watched in amusement as a large number of female gazes focused on Gilbert, who had turned several delightful shades of pink. Gilbert unbuttoned his shirt and shoved it at Goran, who looked to be enjoying himself immensely.

And what wasn’t to enjoy? Gilbert was in excellent physical condition, and Joseph cast a quick, covert glance at a toned, decently muscled chest, slender waist, and flat stomach. When he lifted his gaze to meet Gilbert’s, icy chips of amethyst looked back at him. 

“Please, Doctor Sansom, lie down on the table.” After Gilbert complied Joseph walked over behind the table and addressed the guests. “I will apologize in advance that I will be a little clumsy tonight,” he said, indicating the sling. “I’m afraid I had a bit of a mishap last night and injured my arm, so I will be a little slower than I should like.” Joseph removed the sling and set it off to the side, and he did a quick check to make sure everything was in place.

“All right now, Doctor Sansom, let’s get rid of what’s been making you feel so disagreeable,” he said, and several older ladies—Joseph was sure they were Gilbert’s patients—cackled loudly before hurriedly muffling their amusement.

For all the amazement the effect invoked, it was really quite a simple trick, and Joseph hadn’t needed to practice it too many times. He cupped his injured hand as best he could just below Gilbert’s ribcage, and then he held his other hand aloft, flat and stiff, before pretending to plunge it into Gilbert’s abdomen. He quickly bent his first knuckle joints, then the second, and as he moved his hand, seemingly rooting inside Gilbert’s intestines, he dropped his left shoulder so that the small blood-filled casing moved into his left palm. He squeezed it, and there were gasps and murmurs of dismay as blood trickled through his fingers.

“You ruin that cast, and I’m going to kill you,” Gilbert threatened. He tried to look at what Joseph was doing.

“Get back down, sir!” Joseph said, and then he rolled his eyes at the audience. “Doctors make the worst patients.”

The joke diffused some of the tension, but Joseph knew he still had everyone’s undivided attention. He poked around some more, and then he dropped his right shoulder, allowing the chicken heart to drop into place. “Ah, here we are,” he said, and he lifted out the thumb-sized organ and held it aloft. Goran came over with the bowl, and Joseph tossed it—and the spent sausage casing—into the bowl. After wiping his hands on a cloth, Joseph lit a matchstick from a nearby candle and dropped it into the bowl. The guests exclaimed in surprised as the contents erupted into pale blue flames.

Gilbert tried to sit up, but Joseph stopped him again. “Now,” Joseph said, “I’m going to show you how I accomplished that miraculous removal of Doctor Sansom’s ill mood.” Goran helped Joseph shed his coat, and Joseph winced a bit when his injured arm was jostled. He spread his trussed-up arms out, and turned around slowly, so that everyone could see the apparatus he wore. “Ladies and gentlemen, what I am wearing is a standard, although custom-made, piece of equipment that almost any good stage magician will have in his inventory. This apparatus allows me to store items, so that I can make them ‘magically’ appear with ease. On this side, we have a small sausage casing filled with a little pig’s blood.” Goran attached a second filled casing where the first one had been. Joseph held out his right arm. “And on this side I store the ‘impure tissue,’ which is nothing more than a chicken’s heart, liver, or kidney.” Goran clipped a chunk of chicken liver to its spot on the apparatus.

“So now you see, I have my items ready. Normally, I would wear this under my shirt, but I felt it would be much too scandalous for me to also be without my shirt, especially as I am much more handsome than Doctor Sansom.” When the laughter died down, Joseph continued, “Please watch where the sausage casing moves when I lower my left shoulder.” He shifted, rotating his arm out so that everyone could see the casing move to his palm. “Ow,” he muttered as he felt a stab of pain in his arm.

Gilbert’s gaze was on him in an instant. “Stop moving it like that,” he whispered harshly.

“I’m sorry, my arm doesn’t currently agree with that position,” Joseph said, and then he shifted his right shoulder and turned that arm out. “See, now the chicken liver is at the ready.” He held up his right hand. “Now, for the look of putting my hand in the good doctor’s body, I have the good fortune to be double-jointed,” he said, flexing only the top tips of his fingers, “something that both amazed and disgusted my schoolmates.”

“He’s right,” Henry said loudly from the back of the room. “It is disgusting, and I could never bear to watch him bend his fingers that way—my own would ache in sympathy.”

Joseph performed the ‘surgery’ once more, calling out each of his moves, and as he held up the chicken liver he said, “The blue flames are from a chemical, and it catches fire quickly because the whole bit is doused with alcohol.” He dropped the liver into the bowl and showed everyone that he was still holding the sausage casing. “And look what I have here! I snuck this into my hand, and now it all will burn so no one is the wiser.”

He was about to toss another match into the bowl when he saw a slight figure standing in the ballroom’s entrance.

“Naka,” he said.

Every head in the room turned to face the young man, who looked almost child-like clad in borrowed pyjamas, with his long, fair hair caught back with a simple ribbon. “How did you know?” Naka asked, and his eyes were wide as he took in the room’s setup. “How did you know that my father did everything this way?”

“Goran and I are stage magicians,” Joseph replied, “and we’ve been doing this long enough that we recognized that everything your father did was a trick. And that you were his assistant.”

Naka bowed his head. “Yes.”

“Naka,” Goran said, “we know he forced you to help him. But you don’t have to any more—everyone here now knows it was all a trick, and when word gets out, no one will every hire him again.”

The room was filled with murmurs of assent.

Henry walked over to stand by Naka. “Everyone, I invite you to investigate the room as thoroughly as you’d like, and then you can proceed to the drawing room, where there are some lovely pastries and some tea, as well as some spirits of the alcoholic sort. Thank you so much for your kind attention this evening.” 

Gilbert sat up as the guests began to disperse, and Joseph watched Henry call the butler over to escort Naka back to his room. Goran made quick work of unbuckling the apparatus and Joseph eased his coat back on, careful to not twist his arm again. “Well, that was unexpected,” he said to Gilbert, and he thrust a damp cloth into his hands. 

“Unexpected, but extremely timely,” Gilbert said as he scrubbed at the blood on his stomach. “Hand me my shirt.” He scowled as he shrugged into the garment, quickly buttoning it up. “Several of my patients were here tonight.”

Joseph laughed. “I know, I heard them. But just think how much more in demand you’ll be now, Gilbert.” He stepped back when Gilbert reached toward him, thinking that Gilbert was finally going to hit him this time, but Gilbert merely picked up the sling.

“Bastard,” Gilbert muttered as he re-tied the sling around Joseph’s neck.

“I had such a lovely view, too,” Joseph murmured. “You’ve filled out nicely.”

Gilbert mouthed the words ‘fuck you’ and then went to retrieve his waistcoat and jacket.

The room was soon empty, except for Joseph, Gilbert, and Goran, and the three men dragged a few chairs into a rough circle and plopped down onto the richly upholstered seats.

“That was a lot of fun,” Goran said. “It was almost as fun as one of our regular shows.”

“You have a warped definition of ‘fun,’” Gilbert said as he slouched in his chair.

“Oh come now, Gilbert, admit it—it was a very successful evening.” Henry stood a few feet away, an opened bottle of champagne and four glasses in his hands. 

“Give me that,” Gilbert ordered, taking a glass, and he poured a generous portion of the sparkling wine.

“Don’t drink yet, we have to toast.” Joseph took the bottle from Gilbert and poured for himself and the others. 

“To a successful evening,” Henry said, raising his glass.

The other three repeated the toast, and they drank.

“To Henry having people other than me in his house,” Gilbert said, “and surviving it.”

“The weekend’s not over yet, Gilbert,” Henry said, but he touched their glasses with his own. “But I must admit, it hasn’t been nearly as horrible as I thought it would be. Dinner was lovely, and a few of the young ladies are actually quite nice.”

“My turn,” Goran said. “To new friends.” He raised his glass to both Gilbert and Henry.

“To new friends.” 

Joseph refilled all their glasses, and then raised his up. “Thank you for letting us help you with this, both of you, it was quite an adventure. We exposed a fraud, and we most likely saved a young man’s life.”

“Hear, hear,” Henry murmured.

Joseph extended his glass, and he looked into Gilbert’s eyes. “To old friends,” he said.

Gilbert’s glass touched his with a soft _clink,_ and although his expression was serious, Gilbert’s eyes were a dark, smoky violet, and the banked desire in their depths made Joseph’s pulse race.

“To old friends,” Gilbert said, and he downed the contents of his glass.


	14. Chapter 14

A good show was like a good bottle of scotch, Joseph thought as he opened the door to his bedroom and went inside. He could get drunk on the adrenaline of performing, the applause and laughter from the audience, and the satisfaction of having every trick going to plan. Tonight’s performance was a very different one from what he’d been used to for the past six years, and there had not been the same energy in the room as he was used to experiencing in a theater. But the knowledge that what he had done tonight had changed peoples’ minds, and changed a young man’s life, was just as intoxicating.

Not to mention Gilbert’s smoldering gaze as they had toasted their friendship.

_I’ll take that over all the applause in London,_ Joseph thought as he slipped off the sling. 

Henry had thoughtfully sent up a bottle of wine, and Joseph poured himself a glass and drank half its contents. His arm was aching from his exertions earlier, so he took his time undressing. After he fastened up his red silk pyjama bottoms, he drained the glass and poured another before he got into bed. He turned the oil lamp down low and leaned back against the pillows, his mind still racing too much to go to sleep just yet.

That look had held a promise, he thought as he sipped his wine, as had the kiss they’d shared the night before. And although Joseph had sworn to himself that he would be content if he could regain Gilbert’s friendship, Gilbert’s kiss had tossed that notion right out of his head.

He wanted more.

And he was pretty sure that Gilbert wanted more, too.

A soft rap on the door startled him from his thoughts. “It’s Gilbert.”

{Well, well. “Come in,” Joseph said, and he set his wineglass on the bedside table.

“You were flinging that arm about a good bit,” Gilbert said as he came into the room. “I want to check your cast and make sure you didn’t make a mess of things.”

_Oh, well._ Joseph said nothing as Gilbert sat on the edge of the bed, and he held out his arm for inspection.

Gilbert examined the cast, and checked Joseph’s hand and fingers. “Everything looks fine, and there doesn’t seem to be any swelling in your hand. How’s the pain?”

Joseph shrugged. “It aches a bit right now, but not overmuch. Henry sent up some wine, that’s helped.”

“Good,” Gilbert said. “I was hoping the forearm cast would be enough. You’ll have to be a little more careful in your movements, but this won’t restrict you as much as a full arm cast would.”

“Goran and I have already talked about modifying some of our tricks, and what ones we’ll need to shelve until my arm’s healed,” Joseph said. “How long, do you think?”

Gilbert shrugged. “It’s a mild fracture in a decent spot, and the fact that your pain is already manageable tells me your recovery should be a fairly easy one. I should be able to remove the cast in four to six weeks, and you should be able to put your full weight on it in another two or three months after that.”

_Almost four months!_ “Sounds like I was lucky,” Joseph said. 

“You were,” Gilbert said. He reached over and picked up Joseph’s wineglass, lifted it to his lips and took a generous swallow. Then he rose and walked over to the table by the window, his fingers pulling at the knot in his neckwear. Joseph watched him tug the strip of silk away from his collar and toss it onto the table. A few moments later, the collar and Gilbert’s coat and waistcoat landed on top of the silk.

Joseph’s puzzlement increased when Gilbert started working open the buttons on his shirt. “Not that I ever wish to discourage you from removing your clothes, Gilbert, but why are you undressing?”

Gilbert glanced over at him. “We’re going to fuck,” he said, and then he returned to his task.

“Oh,” Joseph said. “Well then, by all means, carry on.” 

Other people had stripped naked before Joseph in the past, mostly women, but none of them had ever aroused him more than the man before him now. There was nothing teasing in Gilbert’s manner, no winks and flirting, no whispered dirty nothings. In the warm, yellow glow of the lamp light, Gilbert removed his clothes with quiet purpose—an almost business-like manner—and it was only the hard, jutting erection that was revealed when Gilbert undid his trousers that betrayed any hint of pleasures to come. Joseph’s cock was hard now, too, tenting the silk of his pyjama bottoms, and he unfastened the buttons and kicked them off and onto the floor.

Now naked, Gilbert set small bottle on the bedside table, and then he drank the rest of the wine before he slid under the covers and joined Joseph in the bed. For a moment they faced each other, gazes locked, and then Joseph bent his head and licked a stray drop of wine from Gilbert’s lower lip.

Their mouths met first, teasing their tongues into each other’s mouths as their hands roamed, reacquainting themselves with their bodies. Joseph reached down between Gilbert’s legs. “Been a long time since I’ve had this in my hand,” he said, enjoying Gilbert’s groan as he wrapped his fingers around a hard, thick cock. Gilbert reciprocated in kind, and for awhile they lay together, exchanging slow, deep kisses while they stroked each other. 

Joseph was reminded of that first summer night, more than a decade ago, when they had clumsily kissed, tugging at each other’s cocks with eager passion, coming much too soon. 

Tonight, their hands and mouths moved at a more sensuous pace, intending for their pleasure to last much longer.

After a bit Gilbert pulled away, and when he leaned over to fetch the bottle, Joseph hitched himself back up against the pillows. Gilbert straddled him, and Joseph held out his good hand, watching as Gilbert uncorked the bottle and drizzled oil over his fingers. “Come here,” Joseph said, pressing the back of his hand against the small of Gilbert’s back to push him closer, “give us a taste.”

Gilbert rose onto his knees and guided his cock between Joseph’s lips, grabbing onto the carved headboard for support while Joseph licked and sucked at his hardened length. Joseph savored Gilbert’s quiet pleasure, his harsh breaths, punctuated by gasps, as Joseph flicked his tongue just the right way. Gasping breaths turned to low groans when Joseph pushed oiled fingers inside him, and when Joseph glanced up he reveled in the lust in Gilbert’s dark gaze as Gilbert watched his cock move in and out of Joseph’s mouth.

“Fuck me now,” Gilbert said, his voice hoarse. Joseph barely had enough time to get some oil on his cock before it was buried in tight, exquisite heat, and Gilbert’s low moan almost made Joseph come right then. He rested his good hand on Gilbert’s hip, guiding him up, down, up, down as he tried to match his thrusts with Gilbert’s steady rhythm. They were both gasping now, groans escaping their throats each time their bodies met and joined. This was nothing like those clumsy couplings in the orchard, Joseph thought, as he pulled Gilbert down for a rough, hungry kiss, it was so, so much better. Gilbert moaned in his mouth when Joseph reached between them and gripped Gilbert’s cock, and as the pleasure mounted in his groin Joseph knew he wouldn’t last much longer. He stroked Gilbert hard and fast, and when Gilbert arched back and came, his spend spilling into Joseph’s hand, Joseph gave himself over to his own climax, bucking his hips, thrusting deep to empty himself into Gilbert’s shuddering body.

Joseph’s chest heaved as he lay there, tried to catch his breath, enjoying the after-shocks of pleasure that still lingered. Gilbert was still on top of him, panting breaths escaping his parted lips, one hand still gripping the headboard while he brushed his fingers over Joseph’s lips.

“You always did have a wicked, wicked mouth,” Gilbert said.

Joseph grinned and lifted his hand to his lips, licking Gilbert’s bitter-salt spend from his fingers. 

Gilbert eased off him, collapsing onto the mattress. Joseph leaned over and kissed him, their uneven breaths mingling as their mouths met once again. Then they both rolled onto their backs, and a sated quiet fell between them as they came back to themselves.

Joseph turned his head to glance over at Gilbert. Gilbert’s eyes were closed, his pale skin glistening in the lamplight, his hair a mess of tangled gold. Joseph kissed Gilbert’s shoulder, tasting salty sweat. “That was amazing,” he murmured against Gilbert’s skin. “I almost forgot how good it feels to be inside you.” A little lie; fucking Gilbert had been like a drug to him all those years ago, and Joseph gladly welcomed renewing his addiction.

“Mmm,” Gilbert replied, and Joseph saw the faintest of smiles briefly curve Gilbert’s lips before Gilbert reached over and turned off the lamp. 

Maybe the good doctor had an addiction, too.


	15. Chapter 15

A persistent, pale beam of sunlight lingered on Gilbert’s face, rousing him from his slumber. He raised his head and peered blearily at the opening in the curtains that was to blame for his torment, and he rolled over onto his side to escape it.

Joseph lay there, on the other side of the bed, watching him with an odd expression on his face. 

“What is it?” Gilbert said.

“All those times we were together, when we were younger,” Joseph said, “and this is the first time I’ve woken up with you in my bed.”

“It’s the first time we actually fucked in a bed,” Gilbert pointed out.

Joseph grinned. “Yeah, a bed is much better than a blanket on a stone floor, or the grass in the woods behind the school.” The mattress creaked as he leaned over to press his mouth against Gilbert’s bare shoulder. “I like waking up with you in my bed, it’s more than a bit glorious.” He ducked his head to lazily swipe at a dusky nipple with his tongue. “I liked having my cock inside you last night, that was glorious, too.” He gave Gilbert a lingering kiss.

“Mmm. Watch the arm,” Gilbert said when Joseph reached over to fetch the bottle of oil from the bedside table.

“Hush, I’m fine.”

Joseph resumed kissing his way down Gilbert’s body, and Gilbert closed his eyes and enjoyed the damp heat of Joseph’s mouth on his cock while oil-slicked fingers pushed inside him. 

“Your arm, Joseph,” Gilbert reminded him a few minutes later, when Joseph rolled him on to his stomach. 

“I’ll be fine—ow!”

“Idiot,” Gilbert said, siting up and taking Joseph’s mouth in a rough kiss. “I told you it’ll be weeks before you can put any weight on that arm. Lay back,” he said, and he pushed Joseph back against the mattress.

“A bit bossy, are we?” Joseph said, smiling. 

“Making me do all the work again, I see,” Gilbert said as he straddled Joseph’s hips. He bent down to kiss him while Joseph’s fingers slipped back inside him, and moments later the fingers were replaced with Joseph’s hard, thick cock. Gilbert sat back, his arse fully flush against Joseph’s hips, and he looked down at the man beneath him, who had a wide smile on his face. “What?”

Joseph flicked his fingers over one of Gilbert’s nipples, and then he trailed his hand down over Gilbert’s ribs and across his belly, to rest a possessive hand on his hip. “You’re fucking beautiful,” he said, brushing his thumb against the ridge of Gilbert’s hip bone.

Gilbert scowled at him. “I’m not a woman.” He groaned when Joseph gripped his cock.

“No, not with this lovely bit you aren’t,” Joseph said. “but you’re still beautiful.” He released Gilbert and then gave him a playful slap on his arse. “Get moving, lazybones, we can’t fuck sitting still.” 

Gilbert leaned down and kissed him hard. “Cheeky bastard,” he murmured against Joseph’s lips while he rocked back against Joseph’s bucking hips. Their coupling was rough and hungry, interspersed with deep, ferocious kisses.

“God, I’ve missed this,” Joseph said against Gilbert’s mouth, as he thrust up deep inside him. “I can’t get enough of you.”

Gilbert could only moan in response as a wave of pleasure coursed through him. 

“When my arm is better, I’m going to fuck you properly,” Joseph said, in between gasping breaths, “you won’t walk for days.”

“Promise, promises,” Gilbert said, kissing him again in a tangle of teeth and tongues. He then returned his attention to moving on top of Joseph, enjoying the delicious burn of Joseph’s cock inside him, while a calloused hand closed around his own achingly hard member, pulling and stroking and teasing a long, shuddering climax out of him.

They remained still for awhile, exchanging lazy kisses, until Gilbert’s knees complained and he eased himself off, sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, and then he got up, swatting behind him as Joseph leaned over and pressed a kiss just above the cleft of his arse.

“Stop that, you sentimental idiot,” Gilbert said, and when he looked back Joseph just grinned at him, unrepentant. “And don’t forget to put your sling back on.” He reached for his trousers.

“Yes, doctor,” Joseph said, still smiling. 

Gilbert sighed, and pulled on his shirt. “Your arm will heal quicker the more you wear the sling,” he said, as he deftly buttoned the shirt. “And the quicker you heal…?”

Joseph’s smile turned decidedly predatory. “I’ll be sure to wear it all the time.”

Gilbert snorted. He made quick work of putting on his waistcoat and neckwear, and then he left the room, walking without any hurry back to his own bedroom. Anyone seeing him, he figured, would assume that he’d been checking in on his patient, and not that he’d just been fucked by him.

He let himself into his room, and Gilbert reminded himself to thank Henry for giving him a suite with a small bathroom attached. He drew himself a decadently hot bath and soaked for a good while, easing a pleasant ache that he hadn’t experienced in quite a few years. It had been good, he thought, as he reclined in the steaming water. More than good—and better than any time they’d been together as teenagers. Joseph Shackleton was no longer the inexperienced, eager boy who had taken him in a gardener’s shack all those years ago, and Gilbert had thoroughly enjoyed their night—and morning—together.

* * *

It was amazing what a good fuck (or two) could do for one’s mood, Gilbert thought later as he conversed with a number of guests during luncheon, which was held outside on the south terrace, overlooking the verdant, rolling hills of the surrounding Surrey countryside.

The previous night’s performance had indeed been a success. Gilbert ended up eating hardly any of his lunch, as guest after guest approached him to thank him for exposing Lee’s sham. Many people pressed cards into his hand, requesting to be informed when he had established himself in his own practice. And then there were the mothers who wished to introduce their daughters, and Gilbert’s good mood managed to extend far enough for him to suffer those introductions with fairly good grace.

Joseph was also thronged, surrounded by guests wishing to congratulate him on the performance and to ask him questions about some of the tricks, as well as inquiring about their shows at the Egyptian Hall. Watching him work the small crowd of wealthy socialites, Gilbert had a feeling that Shackleton and Stone were going to sell out their entire London run.

After luncheon, the guests packed their things and began to take their leave, meeting with Henry to thank profusely for his hospitality before they boarded their carriages and departed. Gilbert escaped the chaos by returning to his rooms and packing, and then he visited Naka.

He found the young man sprawled on his bed, dressed in a borrowed shirt and trousers, poring over an exquisitely illustrated atlas. 

“Hello, Doctor Sansom,” Naka said, and he scrambled to sit up.

“Hello, Naka,” Gilbert said. “I wanted to see how you were doing.” He had Naka remove his shirt, and Gilbert saw that the carbolic acid had done its work well, and that Naka’s scrapes and bruises should heal well with no ill effect.

“I am much better today, thank you,” Naka said, as he buttoned his shirt back up. “May I go outside this afternoon? Goran said there is a large garden outside, and he said he would show it to me if you allowed me to.”

“I don’t see why not,” Gilbert said.

Naka ran a reverent finger along the gold-leaf embellished border on the open pages of the book. “Lord Choughton has so many books! He showed them to me last night, and I have never seen so many in my life. He has kindly allowed me to read as many as I like, even though I cannot read English very well.”

“One of Lord Choughton’s great loves is his collection of books,” Gilbert said. “He must think well of you if he has given you such broad permission to his library.”

“He is a very nice man,” Naka said. “He asked if I would like to live here, with him, and he would become my guardian so that I will never have to go back to my father. He said he has another home, too, and that I can live in that house as well.”

“It’s a very generous offer, Naka,” Gilbert said. “Becoming Lord Choughton’s ward would change your life, and give you opportunities that few boys your age could ever hope for.”

“He is a nice man,” Naka repeated. He paused for a moment, and then he looked up at Gilbert. “And he is a good man, too?”

“Yes,” Gilbert said promptly, sensing the fear behind the young man’s hesitation. Henry was a stranger to him, no matter how well-intentioned. “He is a very good man, and he is my best friend.”

Naka smiled. “Then I will say yes.” He touched the book again. “Lord Choughton said he will help me with my English, so that I can read and write better, and he said that I can go to school!”

“Off with you, then,” Gilbert said, and he followed Naka as the young man bounded out of the room and down the main staircase. It would do Henry good to be responsible for Naka, he thought. He watched Naka run up to Henry, obviously telling him of his decision, and Gilbert was pleased to see a genuine smile on Henry’s face as he clapped a hand on Naka’s shoulder.

“Ah, there you are, Gilbert,” Henry said as Gilbert came down the stairs. “Everyone’s finally gone but us now, and we’re having tea out on in the gardens before you have to leave.”

Gilbert followed Henry and Naka out back, where he found Joseph, Goran, and his aunt seated at a simply decorated table inside a large, ornate, wrought iron gazebo. Another table off to one side held a selection of sandwiches, rolls, scones and pastries, and Gilbert filled a plate and sat down next to Joseph at the table, nodding his thanks as a footman poured his tea.

“Joseph and Goran have to leave since they have a performance tomorrow night,” Henry said as he took his seat at the head of the table, “but I can’t tempt you to stay on another night, Gilbert?”

Gilbert shook his head as he swallowed a bite of egg sandwich. “I’ve got a meeting with Sir Nigel tomorrow morning to go over the events of the weekend. The monthly Fellows meeting is tomorrow night, and he will be bringing me along to give them my report.”

“So with any luck, by tomorrow evening, you will be a Fellow of the Royal College of Physicians,” Constance said.

“With any luck,” Gilbert agreed, and he helped himself to another sandwich.

Constance reached for a scone and split it open. “I daresay you will have excellent luck—the news will spread like wildfire once all those people return to London. You—and Joseph—made quite an impression last night.” As she spread jam on her scone, she gave Gilbert a speculative look. “You know,” she said, “this may very well reach Her Majesty’s ears. I wouldn’t be at all surprised to hear people calling you ‘Sir Gilbert’ by the end of the year.”

“But I didn’t do anything,” Gilbert protested. “Joseph and Goran did all the work.”

“You asked for my help,” Constance said, “even though I teased you mercilessly about doing so—yes, darling, I am self-aware--and that started everything. You accepted Henry’s assistance, and let him push you into asking for _Joseph’s_ help, and here we all are.”

Goran and Naka finished their meal, and they ran off together into the garden. The sky was a bright, cloudless blue, and the air was filled with birdsong and the young men’s excited chatter. Gilbert drank his tea and enjoyed the warm press of Joseph’s knee against his thigh.

“I was thinking,” Henry said.

Gilbert and Joseph looked at him expectantly.

When Henry didn’t continue, Joseph chuckled and said, “Yes, Master Gonow?” in a nasal, upper-class tone. “Your thoughts do us no good if they stay in your head.”

It took a great effort on Gilbert’s part to not choke on his tea. 

Henry smiled. “You’re as bad as Gilbert. It wasn’t so bad, this weekend, was it? I found to my surprise that I enjoyed having the house filled with guests. What if we did this again? We could make it a charity event—a weekend at Hakken Hall with a private performance by the world-famous Shackleton and Stone.”

“Henry, dear, what a wonderful idea,” Constance said. “I know that everyone who attended this weekend would be most eager to return, and they would pay handsomely to do so.” She eyed him over the rim of her teacup. “Especially Lady Throckmorton and her lovely daughter Janet.”

Gilbert was surprised—and pleased—to see a tinge of pink appear on Henry’s cheeks. _An early spring crocus,_ he thought. Perhaps Henry’s heart was beginning to emerge from its long winter.

“It’s a terrific idea,” Joseph said. “I’m sure Goran will be all for it.” He looked over toward the garden, where Goran was demonstrating triple somersaults to Naka. “Can the charity be one that helps abused children?” 

“Absolutely,” Henry said. “When do you think we should have our first event?”

“Well, we’ll be in Edinburgh at the Theatre-Royal from September through November, so the fall is out.” Joseph leaned back in his chair and smiled. “And we just got a letter the other day from the manager at the Egyptian Hall—we’ve been offered the Hall for a six-month, exclusive run starting in the new year.”

“Joseph, what excellent news!” Henry exclaimed. 

“Yeah,” Joseph said. “We’re pretty pleased. Maybe we can do something in December, when we’ll be in between venues. And then we can do another one in July.”

“The holidays are an excellent time to host a charity event,” Constance said, “and as we can see, Hakken Hall is lovely in the summer.”

“And I must insist, Joseph,” Henry said, “that both of you must stay with us whenever you’re in London. I’m sure that at some point you’ll purchase your own homes in London, but until then, none of this ‘renting rooms’ nonsense. I have an obscene amount of extra room in my house in town, and I know Gilbert does as well.” 

Gilbert caught the small glance that Henry gave him, and its accompanying smile. His friend knew something had changed between him and Joseph, just like he had known all those years ago. “You could have your old room again,” he said to Joseph. “Right now it’s just storing my father’s uglier acquisitions. Clarke would welcome you back with open arms.”

Not that Joseph would be spending much time in that room, if Gilbert had his way.

“And of course it’s completely up to Goran, but I think Naka would enjoy having his company on a regular basis,” Henry said, nodding over to where the two young men now sat on a low garden wall, animatedly engaged in conversation. “Naka has agreed to be my ward, so he’ll be returning with me to London.”

Joseph looked over at Gilbert, searching his gaze, and Gilbert saw the unspoken question. _Are you sure?_ Gilbert gave him a small nod. “It would probably do you fellows good to not be in each other’s pockets all the time,” he said.

“You’re probably right,” Joseph said. “We’re usually at each other’s throats by the end of a run, and then we spend our breaks as far apart as possible. We’ll contribute to our upkeep, of course.” His tone brooked no argument. “Oi, Goran!” he called, and Goran came trotting over, Naka close behind.

Joseph jerked a thumb in Henry’s direction. “His Nibs here is doesn’t want us renting rooms any more when we’re in London, and he wants you to stay with him and Naka. I’m expected to slum it with Gilbert.”

Goran blinked at the unexpected news. “I…really?” He turned to Henry. “You’re sure?”

Henry nodded.

“Really?” Naka said, beaming. He tugged on Goran’s shirt sleeve. “Will you, Goran?”

Goran returned the smile. “Yeah, sure, why not? I’ll be able to teach you lots of things, and you can show me the wire-walking you were telling me about.”

The two young men ran back to the garden, where Naka hopped up on the narrow iron gate and balanced himself perfectly on one foot.

Joseph watched them both, and then he commented, “Looks like we might have some additions to our repertoire soon! I think it will be good for both of them, Henry; Goran doesn’t talk much about his childhood, but I get the impression it wasn’t a good one, and we know Naka’s was pretty terrible. Maybe the two of them can enjoy a bit of fun together.”

“So it’s settled, then.” Henry looked supremely pleased with himself.

Gilbert glanced at the deepening sky, and he pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. “I’m sorry to be the first to leave,” he said, rising from his chair, “but I need to get back. I’ll need most of the evening to prepare for my meeting with Janning tomorrow.” And the meeting with the Fellows, he thought, whose ranks be hoped to be joining. He fingered his jacket pocket, bulging with calling cards; he had more than enough interested patients to start planning his own practice soon. “Aunt Constance? Are you riding back with me?”

“No, darling,” she said, holding out her teacup for a footman to refill. “I’m going to stay another night so Henry and I can go over the particulars of setting everything up. And then tomorrow we’re going to take young Naka to get measured—the poor boy needs a whole new wardrobe.”

Gilbert kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you,” he said. 

“My goodness, I think that’s the first time you’ve voluntarily kissed me since you were five. I’ll have to have Jirough make a note of it when I get home.” Her eyes twinkled as she patted his cheek. “We’ll have to start looking for a suitable place for you to establish your practice; you know how I love shopping.”

“Yes, Aunt Constance.” Gilbert held out a hand to Henry. “Henry, old man, you survived the weekend. Thank you for all your help.”

Henry clasped his hand. “Thank _you_ for getting me involved, Gilbert. This adventure has made me realize how small my world had become, and I think I should like to start enlarging it. So,” he said, “shall we three have dinner at the Red Lion on Thursday?” He glanced over at Joseph.

“Of course,” Gilbert said.

“Wouldn’t miss it, mate,” Joseph said, grinning widely.

Gilbert lifted a hand in farewell to Goran, who waved back, and then he turned to Joseph. “Come with me a moment? I have something in my bag for you.”

He and Joseph made their way up to his suite of rooms. Gilbert’s suitcase was already packed and ready by the door, and his medical bag sat open on a nearby table. When they stepped inside, Joseph shut the door and pushed Gilbert up against it, and their mouths met in a rough, passionate kiss.

“Have to say a proper good-bye, even if it’s just till Thursday,” Joseph whispered as he trailed his lips along Gilbert’s jaw. “So what is it you’ve got for me? Something nice? Something hard?” His good hand slipped down to press against the front of Gilbert’s trousers.

“Stop that,” Gilbert said, batting Joseph’s hand away, and he walked over to his bag. He reached into a small compartment and pulled out a set of keys, and he placed them in Joseph’s hand. “Here.” 

Joseph stared at the ornate brass keys in his palm. “What’s this?”

“A spare set of keys to my house in Edinburgh,” Gilbert said. “You can stay there when you go up in September. There’s a small staff, and they go home at night. I’ll write them to let them know you are welcome there as my guest.” He fastened the bag, set it next to his suitcase, and turned back toward Joseph. “I’ll be attending a conference at the University in early October. It’s for one week, but I think I shall stay on for at least another after that, since I’ve been promised I will need that time to be able to walk again.”

Joseph smiled as he turned the keys over in his hand. “So you’re sure about this, then? Me living with you in London?”

“You’ll be back again in January,” Gilbert said. “We’ve got until then to see how things are going. For now, come over to my house in London whenever you can, and later I’ll find excuses to come up to Edinburgh. I’ll give you a key for the house on Arlington Street on Thursday.”

Joseph closed his fingers around the keys and lifted his gaze to meet Gilbert’s. “You think this is going to work, this thing between us?”

“Who knows?” Gilbert said. “Maybe it will, maybe it won’t.” He leaned over and brushed his mouth against Joseph’s, reveling in the way Joseph gripped the back of his neck and hungrily returned the kiss. “All I know is, we’ve been given a second chance to find out.”

_-fin-_


End file.
